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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25221697">Blood on the Sand</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko'>Akiko_Natsuko</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>BixFreed [29]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fairy Tail</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Betrayal, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Broken Promises, Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fights, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Imprisonment, M/M, Magic, Memories, Multi, Nightmares, Promises, Protectiveness, Serious Injuries, Trust, Wrongful Imprisonment</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 12:40:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>37,173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25221697</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akiko_Natsuko/pseuds/Akiko_Natsuko</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Freed continued to fight. Not to live, not to escape, but to survive just one day at a time. It was the only thing he had left beyond memories, and the few people that he still allowed close enough to care for. As blood-stained as the sands of their prison, he saw no other future. Bickslow's arrival threatens to change that, if Freed will let it.</p><p>But the future is terrifying, when you've not had one for so long, and when there's no promise of what lies beyond this world of blood on the sand.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bickslow/Freed Justine, Past Laxus Dreyar/Freed Justine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>BixFreed [29]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1188712</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please note that if you want to talk to me about my fics and writing, or anime/shows/games in general then you can now find me on discord  <a href="https://discord.gg/6sSddAWa5c">The Unholy Trinity</a>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>X774</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The country of Fiore. A once neutral country with a population of 17 million, that nearly a decade ago had gone to war with itself. What had once been a place of magic, had become a land of conflict. Magic, for all its wonder, and the role that it played in people’s lives, the frequent exchange of magic through items, and jobs and guilds, had been blamed. A division that set the many against the few. As people who could only touch the barest spark of magic in the items that made their lives a little easier, came to resent the mages and their power, came to see corruption and abuse even in the light guilds who did nothing but try to help.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Civil war.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Destruction.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Fiore had crumbled beneath the weight of it. Magic and Mages were no longer free, no longer seen as a boon. Magic was a tool, to be used by the many and it was taken by force where it was not given freely. The guilds were dismantled, some breaking up ahead of attacks and arrests as their members scattered to the four corners of Fiore and the lands beyond in a desperate attempt to escape and live free. Others fell by force, beneath weapons and angry mobs. Light. Independent. Dark. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>All guilds met the same fate and the mages…</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The mages were treated as less than human. For some, they became a source of magic, their power bound unless it was required. Their payment was their right to continue living. For others, they became a source of entertainment, as even in this new fractured Fiore, many remembered the excitement of the old Grand Magic Games that had fallen out of favour as the attitude to magic shifted. These new ones were a grim mockery of that festival though, the participants rarely willing – although some found some relief in the temporary freedom to use their magic- and most were prisoners forced to dance to their masters’ whims.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>A new reality.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where magic was a curse, and not a blessing and mages struggled to survive, let alone live.</em>
</p><p>****</p><p>Amongst the ‘games’ that had sprung up across Fiore to put the imprisoned mages to work for the entertainment of the public, none was as famous or infamous, as the one that had claimed the stadium in Crocus for its home. For most, it was the Grand Stadium, a place for spectacle and wonder, where they could sit replete and confident in their power and chase an echo of the past.</p><p>For mages, both those trapped beneath its white sands, and endless tiers of seats, and those hiding throughout Fiore desperately trying to escape capture and imprisonment there, it was hell. It was known, in the way of whispered stories that spread through unseen chapters across a suppressed country, that none who entered those cursed grounds ever escaped. That more died, painting those sands red, than at most of the other games combined. That those who survived wished they hadn’t. It was a bogeyman made real, a fate that no mage would wish even on their worst enemy.</p><p>Hell, on Earthland.</p><p>**</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     The pain was the first thing that Bickslow was aware of when he came back to consciousness, a groan slipping out before he’d even thought about opening his eyes. It felt as though his entire body had been pulverised, although the worst was definitely in his head, a sharp throbbing located somewhere behind his left eye, as though he had been overusing his magic, but worse.</p><p>“I think he’s waking up.” An unfamiliar voice said somewhere above him, and Bickslow tensed. He’d learned the hard way that it was never good to wake up with a stranger leaning over you, especially these days, and particularly when his memories about what had happened were foggy, to say the least. There were fingers against his cheek, and the side of his head, tilting it slightly, and by Era that hurt, and he tried to pull away, only to find that he had nowhere to go, the hands moving to hold him in place. “Easy, we’re not going to hurt you.” It was a nice voice he thought, although the words were clipped as though the speaker was unused to offering comfort, and Bickslow wasn’t inclined to believe him considering the pain he was in and the fact that he didn’t know where he was. Apparently, the man had realised because he sighed, and the fingers disappeared. “Makarov…”</p><p>    Someone else approached and feeling increasingly threatened Bickslow forced his eyes open. The light – not daylight, he realised – hurt, eyes stinging as he squeezed them shut with a cry. Breathing deeply as he tried to ride out the spike in pain, trying to make sense of what he had glimpsed in that fleeting second – there had been a stone ceiling that looked more natural than manmade, a cave? But there were lanterns – the old-fashioned but increasingly popular non-lacrima type – strung in a string across the rock, so it had clearly been in use for a while. Of more interest had been the fleeting glimpse he’d caught of one of the people around him, turquoise eyes, and long, green hair pulled back in a ponytail and a blank expression.</p><p>“…where?” He croaked finally, deciding he wasn’t ready to open his eyes again just yet, but wanting to try and make sense of where he was.</p><p>“Easy, you took a nasty blow to the head.” Another voice answered, a much older man, and Bickslow felt someone settle beside him but ignored that in favour of the words and the lack of an answer. “Freed, could you…?”</p><p>“You can take it from here,” the first man was speaking, so flatly that Bickslow almost thought it was a different person, and despite his earlier decision to keep his eyes shut, he found himself peeling them open as he felt someone moving away. Eyes watering, and vision blurry he watched the green-haired man walking away from him, frowning a little, jolting when something cool was pressed against his face. Drawing his attention back to his other companion and blinking as he found himself staring up at a diminutive, elderly man with a kind smile and sad eyes.</p><p>“Don’t mind him, he’s not very good with people these days,” the man – Makarov? – said, and Bickslow blinked, wondering at the explanation before realising that his gaze had drifted back to the retreating figure and he coloured, not liking that he’d been caught staring.</p><p>“Where…?” He decided that it was safer his earlier question, trying to focus on what was important because now that his vision was clearing a little, he was positive that he didn’t recognise this place. An uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach as he spied walls of bars, as well as numerous cots, lined up alongside the one, he was laid on, not helped by the way Makarov’s smile faded, lips settling into a grim line.</p><p>“Nowhere good,” he replied, which wasn’t really an answer, and Bickslow was about to say as much, trying to push himself up, only to realise that was a terrible idea as the world swam in and out of focus around him. “Easy,” firm hands steadied him, guiding him back down. “I promise I will explain properly later, but for now you need to rest and try not to worry too much.” <em>That just makes me worry more, </em>Bickslow thought, but he lacked the energy, eyes already drooping as his head was pressed against the thin pillow again. Not even the throbbing pain enough to keep him awake, and he was asleep before he could demand any answers.</p><p>**</p><p>    The next time he woke, he wasn’t sure how long had passed, because the lighting in wherever the hell he was still cast the same shadows over him. He didn’t feel as though it had been that long, but things had changed while he slept, more of the cots now filled with sleeping fingers, and as he peered around through half-lidded eyes, he was surprised by the mixture of people of all genders and ages.</p><p>
  <em>What the hell have I got myself into?</em>
</p><p>    The sound of a throat being cleared, made him roll over, blinking as he found the same man from earlier sat beside him. “You’re still here…?” He asked, not sure how he was supposed to feel about waking to find a stranger patiently waiting on him, although it was comforting to see a vaguely familiar face in the strangeness around him. “…Makarov?” He tried, not sure if he had remembered correctly.</p><p>“I’m surprised you remembered,” Makarov said with a nod, and a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but then his expression softened a little. “Can you tell me your name?”</p><p>“B-Bickslow,” Bickslow croaked, forcing the word through dry lips.</p><p>“Bickslow,” Makarov smiled before reaching out. “Here, let’s see if you can sit up.” Bickslow nodded and cautiously lifted himself up, not wanting to admit just how much he needed the hands on his upper arms that helped ease him up to rest against the wall, the pain spiking behind his eyes for a moment until he stilled again with a groan. “Unfortunately, they don’t give us anything that will help with the pain, but let’s get some water into you.”</p><p>“They…?” Bickslow might be in pain, but he was paying attention, and he caught the grimace as though Makarov had said more than he’d intended to. His gaze shifted, taking in more of his surroundings that he had earlier, and not liking what he was seeing as he realised that the walls of bars hadn’t been a figment of his addled mind and that the room or rather cavern they were in was divided into small areas. <em>Cells,</em> his mind supplied, stomach queasy at the thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself behind bars, especially as his magic wasn’t the sort to be kept hidden for too long, and stomach churning at that thought he flinched when something was pressed against his hands. It took him a moment to realise Makarov was trying to pass him a wooden cup filled with water, and he took it, glad to have something to hide the sudden trembling in his fingers. <em>If they knew he was a mage… </em></p><p>“Drink,” Makarov ordered, and then sighed. “Then, I will try and answer your questions as best I can.” Suddenly the promise of answers didn’t seem as reassuring as he’d hoped it would be, but he still nodded, instantly regretting it as his head throbbed at the movement, before lifting the cup. The water was lukewarm, but it was clean. He found himself trying to gulp it down until Makarov cautioned him to slow down which he did with difficulty, distracting himself by looking around, trying to spot the other man from his memory, but there was no sign of the green hair, and finally, he reached the bottom of the cup. He didn’t put it down, preferring to have something to fidget with as he took a deep breath, feeling the aches and pain in what felt like every inch of his body before turning his gaze back to Makarov.</p><p>“Tell me.”</p><p>“You’re currently in the living quarters below the Grand Stadium in Crocus,” Makarov spoke quickly, as though if he said it fast enough it wouldn’t cut as deep, sending a frisson of fear down Bickslow’s spine. This wasn’t a plaster being ripped off though, and Bickslow went rigid despite his body’s protests, breathing speeding up as panic and terror flooded him. <em>The Grand Stadium. </em>Everybody, regardless of what side of the conflict over magic they were on knew about the Stadium and what happened there, and for mages that name carried with it an added weight of grief and loss, and bone-deep terror, and he found himself shaking his head. His voice wouldn’t work, words trapped beneath the bubble of fear he was threatening to choke on. <em>No, no, no, no,</em> the denials rang through his mind, a drumbeat in counterpoint to the throbbing pain, he couldn’t be here, they couldn’t know that he was a mage, but there was no lie in Makarov’s expression or voice.</p><p>“…how?” He finally managed to ask, not recognising his own voice when it came out. <em>Please let this just be a dream, a really, really bad dream. </em>Maybe he had lost control of his magic again, and this was just a memory skimmed from someone else’s soul. Even as he thought that he knew that it wasn’t true, for one thing, the pain was far too real, and for another, he had heard the stories. He knew that there no one had ever escaped the Grand Stadium.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Makarov replied, dragging him back to the present and he wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or not as he blinked at him. “Usually, they bring several people at once, but you’re the only new person we’ve had this month, and they just dumped you in with us to take care of. You don’t remember how you were caught?”</p><p>    <em>Caught,</em> as though he was prey, as though he was something less than human. He knew that was how most people saw mages now, had been on the wrong end of that sentiment more times than he cared to count, but still hearing it put like that, left him feeling sick to his stomach.</p><p>“I…” He closed his eyes, trying to think about where he had been and what had happened. He hadn’t been in Crocus, nothing could have made him come anywhere near this city these days, but where had he been? He had a fleeting memory of tall masts, and sails moving away from him. “Hargeon… I was in Hargeon.”</p><p>   That was right, he had heard rumours that there were a few ships that were willing to transport mages away from Fiore for an exorbitant fee. And finally, after months and months of scrimping and saving, working every non-magical job he could find until he inevitably revealed his magic, he’d had enough. He could remember handing over the bag – barely enough to cover his escape to Tenroujima which was apparently a staging point for further travel, and the Captain’s silence when he had heard shouts and running feet. Then when he had tried to reach for his magic, it had been gone, cut off and then there had been hands and angry words, and darkness. “I was trying to get away from Fiore,” he whispered before laughing, an awful broken sound that grated in his ears. He’d done the exact opposite of what he had been trying to do, and the cup creaked in protest as his grip tightened, a helplessness that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel for so long washing over him.</p><p>    He started violently a moment later when warm hands came to rest over his, eyes flying open to find Makarov staring at him, not with pity but with understanding, and holding that gaze he took a shuddering breath. “It was a trap?”</p><p>“I’m afraid so,” Makarov murmured, and he looked far older for a moment as he glanced around, his gaze roving across the sleeping people around them. “More and more people have been coming in, caught trying to escape. It’s their new way of keeping our numbers up, now that they’ve forced us underground.” Bitterness coloured the words, and something deeper and darker.</p><p>Grief.</p><p>“How long have you been here?” It wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, the question creeping out before he could even start to second guess himself.</p><p>“Too long.” There was the grief again, heavier this time and Bickslow wondered just how much Makarov had seen. He’d heard the horror stories, every mage left in Fiore had, but to live through it… Makarov sat back, and Bickslow missed the warmth of the contact, a comfort against the shock still dogging his heels. “I was a Guild Master, one of the first they came after because of the level of my magic. I was given a choice back then, turn myself over, and they would leave my children…” Makarov’s voice caught and broke, his calm mask splintering for a moment, and there was a sheen of tears for a moment before he breathed deeply and shook his head. “I didn’t believe them, but my guild was already hurting, and so I handed myself in, and I’ve been here ever since.”</p><p>“And your guild?” Bickslow whispered. He had once dreamt of joining a guild, of being an official mage and making a living from his magic. Anything to prove that it wasn’t the curse his parents had said it was. He wondered if they were amongst the crowds that turned up to watch the games, if they would be in the Stadium watching him, his hands tightened again.</p><p>“Disbanded,” Makarov replied. “It was safer, making them harder to find. I don’t know what happened to all of them, but some have been here, and…” He trailed off, and Bickslow didn’t need the words to know that they weren’t there anymore, or that there was only one way that mages left this place and he swallowed thickly and looked down. He hadn’t been looking for reassurance not really, but hearing it tore away a little more of his hope and he squeezed his eyes shut. <em>This can’t be happening, this isn’t real…</em>and yet everything countered his desperate rambling thoughts, and he shivered, fear and anger and a thousand other emotions rising in his chest, and his breath caught, waiting for his magic to bubble up and spill out.</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>“My magic!” He forgot all about the idea of hiding that he was a mage, a moot point if Makarov was to be believed and there was something about the older man that told Bickslow there was no lie in his words. Panic colouring his voice, and several people stirred nearby as his voice rose. There had been times, especially as a child when he had wanted to be rid of his magic, to chase away the ‘curse’, but he had made peace with it over the years, and now, as he reached for it and found a hollow, aching void it hurt. Like someone had taken a knife to him and carved out something vital, and his eyes flew open as he looked to Makarov.</p><p>“It’s still there,” Makarov said quickly, and he’d moved, his hands on Bickslow’s shoulders holding him in place, and Bickslow hadn’t even realised that he’d lurched up in his panic. The words were said in a tone that told him Makarov had been through this conversation before, maybe countless times, and his breath hitched as he shook his head. It wasn’t there. He couldn’t feel it, not even a spark to say that it had ever been there, and it terrified him more than hearing where he was, or the bars on the wall. “Bickslow, you need to breath for me,” Makarov was saying, more urgently this time. <em>But I am, </em> Bickslow thought blearily, but now that Makarov had drawn his attention to it, he realised that he wasn’t, air whistling between his lips as it felt as though someone had strapped an iron band around his chest and that only added to his panic.</p><p>     There was a roaring in his ears, and through blurring eyes, he could see that Makarov was still speaking to him, and he tried to make sense of the movements of his lips, but it was beyond him right now, and he was shaking his head, hands curling up to press against his chest as though he could press air into his lungs. <em>I can’t do this. I can’t do this. </em>His eyes were hot and burning, and his face felt hot and cold at once, and he thought that he might have been crying, but he wasn’t sure, as shadows danced around the periphery of his vision. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe, to focus on the here and now, but all he could focus on was the emptiness in his chest, the hollow space where his magic should be, and the sinking realisation than he’d lost more than his freedom. His head was throbbing in time with the roaring, was that his heart? He didn’t know anymore, and the world was disappearing on him, fading into an indistinct grey until he could no longer even feel the hands that he knew were holding him upright.</p><p>
  <em>I can’t do this.</em>
</p><p>*</p><p>    He wasn’t sure how long he’d been drifting in the grey, distantly aware of movement around him, of being moved, but unable to do anything about it. Not sure that he cared enough to fight it, even if he could. Gradually, he became aware of the fact that he was leaning against something soft and warm, a balm against the chill that gripped him, and as he slowly surfaced, he realised that he could feel the rise and fall of a chest behind him. <em>Up and down, up and down, up….</em> It was unconscious, but he found himself starting to imitate the pattern. His chest aching, throat raw and aching again as though he had been screaming himself hoarse rather than fighting to breathe, and he hoped that he hadn’t been crying out, suddenly aware of how many people had been around him and he tensed.</p><p>“…I think he’s coming back.” Words finally made it through the haze, and he frowned. That was Makarov’s voice, but it was coming from in front of him somewhere, so who was behind him? He made a noise of protest, trying to pull free, but there were arms around him holding in place, firm but gentle at the same time and it stopped him from spiralling entirely back into his earlier panicking. It didn’t prevent him from shifting, still trying to escape and tilting his head to try and get a look at who was holding him, blinking as he spied green hair and stern features – the man from before.</p><p>“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man said, and Bickslow was once against caught by the sound of his voice. The words were still a little stilted, a hint of steel beneath them that seemed to betray the reassuring words, but Bickslow got the impression that it wasn’t aimed at him. “So, just focus on your breathing,” he continued, and Bickslow blinked, realising that his breathing had hitched and hiccupped again and he gave a shaky nod, forcing himself to lean back into the man and trying to focus on the rise and fall of his chest.</p><p>     There was a murmur of voices. Makarov and the man were talking, but the words were going over his head, and he was too worn to try and follow the conversation. He hurt, his head pounding again, and he swallowed between shaky breaths feeling as though he might throw up at any moment.</p><p>He drifted for a time, just breathing, each breath feeling like a battle.</p><p>    Eventually, he could feel his breathing easing out, still raw and painful, but more even. With it came a slowly increasing awareness of the world around him. He could feel and smell the man behind him, feel the rumble in his chest as he spoke, and he curled into it as dribs, and drabs of the conversation trickled through to him.</p><p>“…he needs medical attention…” Bickslow wanted to protest. He’d always hated doctors and healers of any sort, having been dragged too far too many as a child as his parents searched for a way to ‘cure’ him, but his voice wasn’t working yet. And if he was honest, he wasn’t sure that the man was wrong, everything in him feeling broken and raw inside and out.</p><p>“They’re not going to give him that, you know that…” Makarov was countering, and Bickslow had to tune out the conversation for a moment, because it came too close to reminding him about where he was and what was happening to him, and he wasn’t ready to deal with that. There was a pause, as though the man holding him felt the same, but then he replied, and the steel had sharped to a deadly edge.</p><p>“… not freely.”</p><p>“Freed you can’t,” Makarov protested, and there was a note of real fear in those words, that distracted Bickslow even from the fact that he now knew the man’s name, and despite his desire to hide from what was happening, he opened his eyes. “Bickslow!” Makarov noticed and leaned forward, and Bickslow blinked wearily at him, getting the sense that the man was trying to use the fact that he was awake to distract from the previous conversation, and from the tension in the body behind him, Freed knew it too. “How are you feeling?”</p><p>    <em>How was he feeling?</em> Exhausted. Pained. Terrified. He wasn’t sure that he had the words to explain how he was feeling, even if he could have got his voice to work, and he settled for shaking his head. A tiny movement, that had pain lancing across his temple, and he couldn’t hide his wince or the strangled gasp that slid free. There was a muffled curse from behind him, something that sounded out of place with Freed’s voice and then he was being moved, and that hurt, even though he could tell that the man was being gentle as he was lifted and then eased back down on the bed. “Easy.” Calloused fingers brushed his cheek, ghosting up towards his temple but stopping short of touching where the pain was originating from. “I’m going to get you some help.”</p><p>“Freed…”</p><p>“Don’t,” Freed’s voice cracked out like a whip, and Bickslow had the feeling that he wasn’t the only one to recoil at the tone because Makarov fell silent. “Listen to Makarov,” Freed was speaking to him again, and Bickslow blinked up at him, vision still blurry. It was his first proper look at the man, and he was younger than Bickslow had expected, possibly younger than him, but hardened by whatever he had experienced here. There was a shadow in his eyes as he met Bickslow’s gaze, and he made no effort to smile, even though he was clearly trying to be reassuring, and there was a careful distance between him and them, that even as a stranger Bickslow could feel. He opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to try and say, but Freed was already moving, weaving around Makarov when the older man reached out as though to try and stop him.</p><p>     The fear was still Bickslow realised shifting his attention to him, before his eyes sought out Freed who had already reached the end of their cell, stepping right up to the bars without a single touch of hesitation or fear as he brought up a hand and slammed it against the bars. The sound echoed, deafening in the otherwise quiet cavern, and several people jolted upright and stirred, while others remained dead to the world. The sound resonated through Bickslow head, kickstarting the throbbing pain once more.</p><p>“What…?” Bickslow managed to get out before his voice failed him again, and Makarov shook his head, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm.</p><p>“Quiet, you don’t want their attention on you,” he hissed in warning, and before Bickslow could ask what he meant he heard heavily booted footsteps moving towards them, and his breath caught as for a moment his vision and memory flickered, past and present blurring, and he was back at the port hearing the same sound drawing close. Then light flared, and pain lanced through his head dragging him back to the present, just in time to see four heavily armed guards coming to a halt in front of the bars where Freed was stood. Fear coiled in the pit of his stomach, and he might have spoken then, but Makarov’s grip tightened in warning.</p><p>    They couldn’t hear the conversation from where they were, and Bickslow’s vision was blurry at best, but it was clear that it wasn’t a friendly conversation. There were sharp gestures, and more than once he felt eyes on him, assessing, judging, just like so many times before, only this time, he wasn’t sure what they were looking for. If Freed was worried, it didn’t show, even when one of the guards reached out and caught the front of his tunic and yanked him against the bars hard enough that it had to have hurt, but he didn’t make a sound. That seemed to agitate them more than anything, and Bickslow tried to push himself up as he heard the distinctive sound of someone being punched and a grunt of pain.</p><p>“Don’t,” Makarov hissed, but he was trembling, as though he was barely holding himself back from intervening, and there was more than fear in his expression now. There was guilt, the kind that stains a person’s soul and if Bickslow had been able to use his magic right then – if he even still had it – he knew he would have seen it staining Makarov’s soul, dark tendrils wrapped around everything. He had seen it before, and he was almost glad that he couldn’t now because something told him this ran deep. Deeper than what was happening right now. However, it didn’t stop him from trying to protest, because he didn’t know what was happening, just that it was bad, and that it was because of him as he felt eyes on him once more.</p><p>“But…”</p><p>“It was his choice,” Makarov cut across him, sounding as though he was trying to convince himself as much as Bickslow and failing because at that moment, there was the screech of a lock being open and the bars were pulled aside. Allowing the guards to haul Freed forward and out into the space beyond with them, and they weren’t gentle about it. Shoving and kicking until he was on his knees, arms twisted behind and Makarov’s grip was bruising now, holding him in place with surprising strength as Bickslow tried to push himself up.</p><p>     There was an audience now, more people roused by the commotion, and none of them moved to help. In fact, many were averting their gaze, as though if they didn’t look at what was happening, it would be less real. A spark of anger cut through the pain and everything else he was feeling and Bickslow wanted to snarl at them, even as he forced himself not to look away, even as Freed’s head snapped to the side from a particularly violent blow that had him listing to the side. There was another furious exchange of words, punctuated by more strikes and Bickslow thought that he was about to be sick, when the guards moved, two locking the cell again, and the other two hauling Freed to his feet between them, supporting him as he wavered.</p><p>“The healer will be with you in the morning,” one of them called, looking toward Makarov and Bickslow, uncaring that he had just disturbed a dozen other people. Freed said something, a protest perhaps, that earned him a punch to the gut that had him doubled over, wheezing and unable to do anything as he was hauled away, and Bickslow’s world had narrowed down to the sound of his gasping breath and the drumbeat of footsteps as the guard’s lead him away.</p><p>    There was a long, pregnant pause, as everyone seemed to hold their breath, and Bickslow didn’t want to think about what had caused that kind of reaction. Eventually, the footsteps had passed beyond hearing, and Makarov’s grip on his arm finally eased, and Bickslow’s attention snapped to him. “What was that?” He rasped, each word hurting, but he didn’t care right then, his need for answers too strong.</p><p>“You need proper help, and we can’t give you that with what we have here,” Makarov replied after a moment, gesturing at their surroundings. “Freed just secured that,” he added, and there was a distance in his voice that hadn’t been there before, as though he wanted to pretend that it had just been a conversation they’d witness.</p><p>    Bickslow didn’t trust his voice right then but kept his gaze locked on Makarov with some difficulty, vision darkening at the edges again, a silent demand for the truth. Makarov held out for a couple of minutes, but eventually, his shoulders slumped, and he looked like a tired, old man teetering on the edge as he finally met Bickslow’s gaze again. “Nothing in this place is free, especially for us. A healer even more so, even if they were the ones to inflict the injuries. What you saw was a down payment…” He faltered, studying Bickslow as though weighing whether or not he was ready to hear the truth, and Bickslow held his gaze, even as he quailed at the thought about what he was about to hear. Makarov hesitated a moment longer before continuing.  “…and the rest will be paid for in blood, Freed’s or his opponent's in the games tomorrow.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>    Freed was already on his feet when he heard footsteps moving towards his cell, ignoring the way his head was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, one of the blows the previous night having landed harder than he’d thought. Not that he was going to let that show. Weakness wouldn’t earn him any mercy; not that he would have accepted any from them even if it had been offered. Taking anything from them left a foul taste in his mouth, even asking for help for Bickslow had left him feeling sick to his stomach, but there hadn’t been any other choice. He hadn’t needed Makarov to tell him the newcomer was in a bad way, and as much as Freed hated relying on their captors – he refused to call them ‘Masters’ – for anything, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing anyone else.</p><p>Not for the sake of his pride.</p><p>
  <em>“This wasn’t your fault,” Laxus’ hands were warm around his, gentle as he pushed him away, stopping Freed’s frantic attempts to stem the bleeding. “Freed…Freed look at me!” It wasn’t the plea, but rather the breathy way it was whispered, as though it had taken everything his partner had just to force out those words that made Freed falter, letting Laxus curl their fingers together, blood painting both of their hands. Too much blood and Freed was shaking his head, denying the forgiveness, the relief… the love that he could see in the blue eyes locked on his face.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“It was if I had only…”</em>
</p><p>     Freed was rescued from the memory, by the clang of metal as something heavy struck the front of his holding cell, and he lifted his head to stare at the guards. As always he noted their weapons, eyes lingering for a second on the sword that the leader had used to rattle the bars if he could just get his hands on it… his fingers itched, and he curled them into fists at his side, trying to hide the urge, to contain it before he did something foolish. He wasn’t sure if the man had noticed, or he had been in a foul mood already, because he struck the bars harder this time and Freed was barely able to hide his wince as the noise reverberated through his throbbing head, before barking at Freed.</p><p>“Step back!”</p><p>     As always Freed considered refusing, wondering just how far they would go to bend him to their will. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that he was one of the best fighters in this section, if not the best now that… he flinched away from that thought, unable to say it even within the safety of his own thoughts. That would make it too real, and as much as he tried to face up to the reality of this hellish existence, that was one thing that he was not ready to face. That he might never be prepared to face. The temptation to push them, to challenge them was overwhelming if only to drive the thoughts away, but as much as he wanted to see what they would do, he forced himself to step back, knowing that right now he wouldn’t be the one to pay the price. It would be Bickslow, or Makarov, or both, or anyone that he had dared show a moment of concern for, and he couldn’t, wouldn’t risk that and so he moved back and dropped his head. Falling into the role of the cowed prisoner, even as rage simmered beneath the surface.</p><p>     He listened intently as they unlocked the cell, three different keys and a lacrima-based lock and his lip curled at the hypocrisy. They claimed to hate magic, to be punishing him and the rest of the prisoners for having magic, and yet here they were relying on it. <em>One day. </em>It was an old promise, one that held no heat these days. Laxus was… had always been the one who was passionate about changing what was happening here, determined to break out and find somewhere where they could make a life for themselves without bars and guards, and where they would be free to use their magic. Freed had believed too for a while, swept along by Laxus’ determination and the way his partner’s eyes would light up while talking about it, but that dream had died a long time, buried along with…</p><p>    Pain blossomed in his cheek, and for a moment, his vision went white as the throbbing went from a dull constant to sharp, lancing pain that pierced his head. When it cleared, he had been forced to his knees, just like he had been the night before, arms wrenched behind him, and every part of him was screaming at him to fight, even as he felt blood trickling from a new split in his eyebrow. <em>One day, but not today…</em> He bowed his head, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood as they chained him with anti-magic shackles. Wary of him even though practically every inch of the system of caves and corridors below the arena was plastered with lacrimas spelled to dampen any and all magic that belonged to the prisoners. Each one was hidden and guarded fiercely. Freed had found one once and shattered it, and the beating that had followed had nearly cost him his life, and Laxus had been forced to fight for three days straight in the arena to earn him a healer.</p><p>…<em>not today.</em></p><p>     He was pliant as he was hauled back to his feet, unable to stop the hiss that escaped as he was clipped around the ear as he rose, reeling slightly and his eyes narrowed. He had long since learned to expect this kind of treatment from them, but this seemed more forced than usual, especially for a day when he was expected to fight, almost as though they wanted him unable to fight. <em>Why? </em>Was it to stop Bickslow getting the healer he needed, somehow, Freed doubted it, although some of the guards could be petty and would single out a new target each week to punish for no reason other than their own pleasure. But Bickslow was too new to have done anything against them unless it was the newcomers magic? Freed had earned special treatment quickly when he had been captured because of the demonic nature of his magic, and he wished that he’d taken the time to ask Bickslow what kind of magic he had.</p><p>    However, he still wasn’t convinced, as they chained his legs. As though he had anywhere to bolt to even if he did manage to slip out the other manacles, or the bruising grip they had on his arms, and he almost pointed that out for them but held his tongue in exchange for studying them. These were all long-term guards, so it wasn’t some newcomer trying to make a name for himself, nearly everyone here had learned to dread the arrival of new guards. It took a certain kind of person to work in this hellhole, and almost every one of them had something to prove, and it was the prisoners that bore the brunt of it<em>. But</em>… his eyes narrowed as he took a good look at the guard who had rattled his bars. Taking in the black eye, the hint of bruises around his neck, as though someone had held him by the throat against the wall, and the flicker of fear in the eyes that met his for a minute before darting away.</p><p>
  <em>Ah…</em>
</p><p>Those injuries were as common as the torment the prisoners were put through. The guards supplemented their income by betting on the fights. Using their insider knowledge to know which of their prisoners were already injured, or had an ongoing conflict with their opponent, to win as much as possible. It didn’t always work. Desperation was a great motivator, and even those who hated fighting, found themselves doing more than they could have imagined just to survive one more day in this hellhole. Which meant that there were upsets on an almost daily basis, and the guards could lose more than they had. Sometimes it was the fighters that had won or lost the fight that bore the brunt of that frustration, sometimes, it was others, especially if they had dug themselves into a hole of debt and were relying on the outcome of another fight to dig themselves out. “Lose something?” He whispered before he could stop himself, lip curled in a bloody smirk.</p><p>    The blow this time was expected, although it didn’t stop his head from snapping to the side, his vision wobbling for a moment, even as his smirk grew at having his suspicions confirmed. It wouldn’t help him, as they still had a distance to go before he was turned over to the arena guards, and a lot could happen in that time, and he knew that none of the guards around him would bat an eyelid. Still, there was satisfaction in knowing that even a lowly prisoner could get a rise out of them. Another blow, this time to his side, had him groaning and forcing his expression to blankness. It didn’t matter how beaten up he was, he would still be expected to fight, and he had no intention of losing, not today at least, so he let his shoulders sink, his head fall, and he let himself wince, becoming the beaten prisoner they wanted to see.</p><p>He hated it.</p><p>    Still, he played the part as they finished chaining his legs, allowing them to push him forward, nearly falling as the chains snagged and only their grip, tighter now, deliberately painful stopped him from falling. He didn’t protest as they kicked him in the back of his knee, trying to trip him, but he slowed his steps, refusing to let them send him crashing to the ground. That was one fight he wasn’t willing to lose. It earned him several elbows to the side, the guards jeering and laughing at him as he hobbled forward, no longer making any effort to hide his pain. Hoping that if they thought him hurt enough, they would leave him alone. After all, they couldn’t risk incapacitating him completely, because the last guards who had made that mistake had been thrown in the arena as opponents for the mages they had imprisoned. It hadn’t been pretty.</p><p>    As he walked, he kept his head bowed, his hair that had fallen loose of its usual tie, offering him a curtain to shield his expression and darting eyes. He noted the places where there was a heavier presence of guards, searching the walls for any sign of the lacrimas that kept his magic dead and silent beneath his skin as he passed. Memorising the turns that lead off down other corridors, to different sections and more prisoners. Laxus had taught him to do this, back when they had hoped and dreamed and planned. Freed didn’t know what he was going to do with any of this information, but it was a habit now. Besides, it kept his mind away from the pain as apparently, the guards weren’t quite done with him yet, and from the fight to come. The innocent men and women that were just doing the same as him, trying to stay alive for one day longer, and for what? So, they could keep fighting? So, they could keep enduring? He didn’t know, he just knew that he would fight, that he would bleed, and he would kill, and the cycle would repeat, until the day someone killed him.</p><p>He thought about Makarov, and Bickslow hurt and confused, and knew that couldn’t be today.</p><p>**</p><p>    As they got higher, the rock walls changed, turning smoother and the lighting was better here, which did no favours for Freed’s pounding head, and now he had no choice but to keep his head bowed, hiding from the light as he was shepherded him forward. A few more corridors and he could make out the familiar distant roar of the crowd in the arena, and his stomach churned.</p><p>   He hated this hellhole, hated the guards who delighted in tormenting him and the others. Yet, all that paled in comparison to the loathing he felt towards the people who came to watch the ‘spectacle’ of Mages fighting for their entertainment. They might not lay a hand on the prisoners, but they were every bit as culpable in what was happening, and yet they sat there and cheered and laughed, and treated it all as a game. Gasping and laughing as mages of all ages bled and fought and died in front of their eyes, as though it was nothing more than a show they were watching on lacrima-television if that even existed in this day and age. Every time he stood in front of their hungry, uncaring eyes, Freed imagined being able to unleash his magic, no not just his magic – his demon – against them. To inflict every bit of pain that had been inflicted on him, on the others…on Laxus, on them until they pleaded for mercy, for forgiveness.</p><p>He wasn’t sure he would be able to stop.</p><p>    He also couldn’t keep his head bowed now, lifting it, ignoring the jab to his side. The light burned against his eyes, head throbbing, but he refused to duck his head or look away.</p><p>    Then he was being shoved through a metal gate, flinching as it clanked shut loudly behind them. The only way he would be going back through that was bloody and victorious, and a heaviness settled over him as he was guided along another corridor and out into a small staging area. Now he was released from his manacles and shoved forward. This time he couldn’t stop himself from hitting the ground, not managing to catch himself in time, a strangled cry bubbling up as he landed, and it took everything he had not to turn around and lash out at them as he heard them laughing.  </p><p>    <em>One day,</em> he promised himself as he caught his breath, feeling the burn in his side. Nothing was broken, but he had a feeling that if looked, he would find himself covered in bruises, and as he finally pushed himself to his feet, he felt the stiffness as he moved. That was going to be a problem, and his fingers itched to lash out as he heard the guards moving away, joining the other guarding the room. <em>One day. </em>Instead, he focused on standing and stretching out each limb, biting back a groan as he moved, even as he let his gaze drift around the room. There was a handful of mages in the room. Most of those who would be fighting today were in the main staging area on the other side of the arena. This one was reserved for either the best, or those who had drawn the guards’ ire or who had a debt to pay, or all three. Freed had spent more time than he cared to count in this room, and seen far too many faces come and go never to be seen again.</p><p>Because this room was a death sentence.</p><p>    For some it was quick, those who shouldn’t have been here at all based on their power levels or experience but who had earned the attention of the guards, or who had got lucky in the arena and risen through the ranks too quickly to know what was coming. For others, like Freed, it was a slow, torturous death. He could see it in the blank expressions and dark eyes, and he knew that he looked the same. For those in this room, it was merely a question of whether your spirit or your body died first.</p><p>…or those you loved.</p><p>“Here,” he jolted at the sudden voice, flinching as he registered movement out of the corner of his eye too late, waiting for the pain to follow. Instead, he blinked as he found a square of what passed for clean material in this place being held up to him, lifting his head to find Minerva had moved to join him while he had been lost in his thoughts, lips quirked in a smile that was anything but mirthful. “You’re bleeding,” she added, tilting her head towards his forehead.</p><p>“I think I offended them,” he replied, accepting the material and pressing it to his eyebrow, wincing as he did so and shifting so that the guards couldn’t see his face. They couldn’t touch him now, so he had no reason to let them think he was bowed. Minerva however, saw everything and her attempted smile disappeared as she moved to block their view, and he nodded gratefully. She wasn’t in his segment, but they had been in this room together enough to have reached a mutual respect, if not friendship, not that either of them would call it as such as such things were dangerous to mention where listening ears were focused on them.</p><p>“What did you do?”</p><p>“Asked for a healer,” Freed didn’t see the point in lying, even as her eyes narrowed. He’d heard about her reputation from her own segment, her drive for victory above anything else, and he waited for the lecture of the comments.</p><p>“You’re a fool,” she settled for saying, moving to lean against the wall instead, arms folded. “A healer? All you’re doing is condemning some poor soul to all of this,” she waved a hand, to encompass their surroundings and he frowned. She wasn’t wrong, and more than once during the long night in his lonely cell, he wondered if Bickslow would thank him for his help. Probably not, but he would be alive, and that still had to count for something, even in this nightmare. The problem was that he wasn’t sure that he believed that anymore, it had been Laxus who had instilled that belief in him, and Laxus…</p><p>“Maybe,” he allowed, lowering the cloth and starting at the blood speckled across the material. It wouldn’t be the only blood he would see today, and he squeezed it in his fist. <em>What was a life worth down here? </em>Blood and suffering, and the slow death of hope. Had he been cruel rather than merciful asking for a healer? He knew what Makarov would say, knew where Laxus had got his heart from, and he wished that he could think and feel like they did if only to honour the latter and everything he had given him, but he couldn’t. That part of him had died, had bled out in this very room, and despite his best efforts, he couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting across to the other side of the room.</p><p>     <em>Freed shook off the guards who had escorted him out of the arena, not caring that he could probably have escaped there and then, his magic still crackling around him, at least until he stumbled forward into the staging area. The sudden loss of his magic as the lacrimas in the walls bound it once more, stealing his breath, and leaving him with no barrier between himself and the pain of his injuries. He hit the ground hard, and for a split second, his vision went dark, and he could feel himself listing to the side, highly aware of the blood soaking into the side of his shirt.</em></p><p>
  <em>“…Freed…” It was little more than a breath of sound, but it was like a shout to Freed, and with nothing but sheer stubbornness, he lifted his head, blinking fiercely to clear his vision. Ignoring the guards, the mages pressed against the far wall, desperately trying not to draw attention to themselves, the bodies laid out under sheets, and there on the ground and far too close to those that were already dead was Laxus. Freed’s heart twisted at the sight of him, realising for the first time that part of him had been terrified that it was too late, that he wasn’t going to speak to him again, that he wasn’t going to get a chance to say goodbye.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Laxus!” It took every bit of strength he could dredge up to get to his feet, hunched over, as the wound in his side pulled, and he felt fresh blood trickling down his side, dizzily wondering if they had hit something vital. Not caring if they had, as he stumbled and staggered towards Laxus.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>   Laxus who was bloody, and unmoving apart from lifting his head just enough to track his progress across the room, the effort clearly costing him as what little colour he’d had left drained from his face. Laxus who was more blood than anything else as Freed reached him, falling to his knees at his side with a sound that was too close to a sob. “Laxus…”</em>
</p><p>     It was a roar from above that dragged him out of his thoughts, just in time to see Minerva dropping her arm back to her side, as though she had been reaching out. Seeing that she was caught, she sniffed and pushed herself upright. “That heart of yours will get you killed one of these days, I would have thought you’d learnt that from Laxus…”</p><p>“Don’t say his name,” Freed snarled, feeling as though he had played into whatever she had been looking for as she smirked at his response before moving off a moment before the guards ordered them to assemble. There was no defiance. Here in this room, where they were so close to having their magic restored albeit briefly, they were just as helpless as they were further down in the caves where they were forced to live. Even Freed fell into line without complaint, aware of the eyes assessing him but ignoring him. There was no guarantee they would be facing one another, as the organisers liked to keep them on their toes as well as the crowd. Sometimes it was each other they faced, sometimes it was other Mages – the reaping the guards called that particular event as it only ever ended in one way, and other times they threw in monsters too.</p><p>    Instead, he was fighting to contain his fury at hearing Minerva say Laxus’ name so easily. A name he hadn’t been able to bring himself to say outside his own thoughts since that day, even around Makarov, on the days that the older man brought up the topic he would say ‘he’ or ‘him’ rather than his name. He knew that the older man worried about that could see the question in his eyes every time they talked. However, Makarov had been kind enough not to ask it yet, and Freed was relieved as the rage simmered beneath his skin as they were forced forward and out, herded along another corridor.</p><p>    At the end, they were split off into separate holding cells to wait their turn. Freed hissing as one of his guard’s snuck in a final elbow to his already bruised side as he was flung into his holding cell with enough force to see him stumbling forward into the metal grille at the front that opened onto a narrow, dark tunnel that led out into the arena beyond. From here, there was no way to miss the cheering crowd of spectators. Cheering and jeering, laughing without a care in the world, unmindful or uncaring of the lives of the people below their feet, and the flame of rage grew brighter in his chest as he straightened.</p><p>    He closed his eyes and focused on breathing. Blocking out the noise of the crowd, the anger and hatred that was bubbling in his chest, the memory of Laxus’ name on Minerva’s lips. <em>Never enter a fight angry,</em> his father had told him when he was younger, back when he had been first learning to wield a sword, and while he had a feeling that his father had never envisioned him ending up in a situation like this, it was a lesson that he clung to. Slowly, steadily, he breathed curling and uncurling each finger one at a time, first one finger and then the other, and then he stretched his shoulders, rolling them to ease the stiffness. There was nothing he could do about the bruises or the pain that flared with each movement, and as a bell tolled somewhere along the line, he opened his eyes.</p><p>He was ready.</p><p>     His grill didn’t open, and he was forced to wait, keeping his breathing steady as he listened to the cheering crowd, the gong that tolled for the start and end of a fight, the bell that rang out every time one of their cells opened. The minutes crept by, the wait wearing on his nerves, and it didn’t help that he knew it was a bad sign. He only went last when they wanted a spectacle, and last time that had happened… his calm was evaporating, hands starting to tremble.</p><p>
  <em>Laxus…</em>
</p><p>**</p><p>     When the bell tolled one last time, and the grill at the front of his holding cell groaned as it was drawn up, freeing him to step into the tunnel, he found that he couldn’t move. He knew that he had to go, that there was no other choice, and not just because this was the price for getting Bickslow help, the only way for him to keep fighting for his right to live, but he couldn’t move. All he could see was Laxus lying in that room behind him, bloody and fading, and still smiling at him as though he was the best thing in the world even though he was the reason they were in that situation. Him and his damn pride, his confidence in his own fighting abilities.</p><p>“Move!” Electricity crackled against his skin, as one of the guards jabbed a lacrima-tipped pole through the bars of the cell. It hurt, but it got him moving, even as for an awful, painful moment he had been reminded of the lightning that had surrounded him that day, protecting him, forcing his opponents away from him just as he was getting overwhelmed.</p><p>  <em>He’s gone,</em> he reminded himself, and it was like tearing open a still-healing wound, and the numbness and calmness faded entirely as he moved down the tunnel. The roar of the crowd sounded like distant thunder now, and it fanned his temper once more, and then he felt it, the moment that he stepped beyond the boundaries laid out by the lacrimas that dampened their magic.</p><p>   It felt like coming alive again, and he snarled, making no effort to stop the demon from surging to the forefront of his mind as a moment later he stepped out onto the white sands of the arena. Half-lost to the darkness as he lifted his head to study the crowd, unable to make out their faces through the shimmering dome that separated them from the arena, but he could imagine them. The smiles and frowns, the laughter and jeers that he had heard a hundred times before twisting their faces. He wished that he could see them, that he could stand in front of them with no protective barrier, no shield to protect them from the reality of what they were doing.</p><p>No shield to protect them from him.</p><p><em>   One day,</em> he thought, and this time he wasn’t alone as the demon under his skin snarled its agreement, and he could feel himself changing. At one time he’d needed runes to trigger the transformation, but they had spent so long trapped together in this body, both longing for nothing more than to be free, that the darkness, the demon was as close as a breath, a thought. The crowd was falling silent now, perhaps recognising him or sensing the danger, as dark scales replaced pale skin, or in anticipation for the show to come and reluctantly he tore his gaze away from them, and turned his attention to the arena. There was no sign of his opponents, but plenty of evidence of the fights that had happened before, the pristine white stained brown and churned up and along the edge, he could see the weapons that had been discarded, and the bodies of the poor, unfortunate creatures that had been used for that day’s spectacle piled up waiting to be disposed of.</p><p>   There was also a sword. His sword, the one that his father had given him when he had deemed him skilled enough to carry a live blade of his own. It had been taken from him the day he was captured, and now it was ‘gifted’ to him when they wanted a show from him, and the rage burned hot as he stalked towards it. It was his, and yet they dangled it in front of him, mocking the life he’d once had, the freedom. The demon hissed in the back of his mind, filling his thoughts with images of the guards and the jeering crowd. It didn’t care that he had people waiting on him. It didn’t care that there was no way for them to win this fight and get out alive.</p><p>It wanted to fight, to bleed, to kill.</p><p>It would get that much at least.</p><p>    He wrapped his fingers around the hilt and lifted it out of the sand, running a finger along the blade, checking the edges. It was cared for, but not as it should be, and he mourned that as much as he lamented the fact that it wasn’t his, not really, not anymore. It belonged to them, as much as he did, as much as the demon hissing in the back of his mind, and the magic swirling at his fingertips did.</p><p>     All he had left to lay claim to was whether he lived or died today, and that wasn’t much, but it was all he had, and he settled into a ready stance, sword ready and magic pooling in the fingertips of his offhand. The arena was silent now, holding its breath, and when the gong rang out a moment later it was deafening, and Freed felt it reverberate through the sand beneath his feet, but he didn’t move or flinch, eyes locked on the far side of the as metal creaked and groaned as more gates opened. As the first Mage emerged, dressed in the ragged remains of the uniform of the Rune Knights, his heart sank, and for a moment his grip on his sword wavered.</p><p>
  <em>Everything has to be paid in blood.</em>
</p><p>    Freed took a deep breath and moved, magic building, runes swirling around him as he boosted his speed as more and more mages poured out of the gates, at least two squads, maybe the remnants of more and for the first time it dawned on him that it wasn’t just independent mages or guilds caught up in this mess. As he closed on them, churning up sand in his wake, he could see the fear on their faces, could feel the demon stirring as it sensed their terror in the air and he wasn’t sure which of them was snarling. The demon in anticipation, or Freed at the unfairness of all this.</p><p>   A show, a spectacle, something to keep the crowds coming. That was what they wanted, and he could give them that without killing these poor men and women who had no idea what they were up against. If he could keep the demon under control, and if he was allowed, and he refused to look towards the arena-host for fear that he would see the crimson flag raised for a fight to the death. Instead, he attacked, wings unfurling behind him as he hurtled into the group of former-Rune Knights who had bunched together, still clinging to the naïve belief that they were still a squad, that anything of their old life mattered in this place. He took down the first half a dozen before they managed to stir to any kind of defence, and he was merciless as he did so, blade stained crimson and magic crackling, drawing cries and screams from them. After all, he knew what the crowds called him, what his ‘masters’ billed him as, and he knew that his life and the help that Bickslow needed rested on him living up to that.</p><p>And the sand grew damp with blood as Freed the Dark danced in their midst.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>   The crimson flag fluttered in the breeze, above a stadium that had fallen quiet. No longer with the hush of anticipation, but the stunned silence of an audience who had got more than they had expected. They could have been cheering or screaming though, and Freed would have been deaf to it, unable to hear beyond the roaring sound that flooded his ears as he turned, sensing movement behind him. One last desperate, Rune Mage, already bloody and beaten, barely upright charging towards him, fire wreathing his hands. Freed didn’t make any attempt to defend himself or step out of the path of the attack, instead, feeling the demon tug his lips up into a feral grin, he stepped into the attack. He felt the heat of the fire, the burn of it against his skin, and laughed – an awful, inhuman sound that echoed around the arena, made worse by the silence as he lashed out, clawed hand wrapping around the man’s throat and lifting him high with magic-enhanced strength.</p><p>    For a moment, he watched the blood that trickled down the man’s throat from the furrows his claws had left, head tilted to the side. He could feel the vibrations of the man’s voice, undoubtedly breathless pleas and sobs, a final desperate attempt to cling to life, that stubborn spark of survival that had lingered, refusing to die in this hellhole, or in the face of the bloodbath that Freed had unleashed on them. Freed almost envied him, wondering if he would do the same if he was in the man’s position. Would some forgotten part of him roar back to wakefulness, and beg for life? He didn’t know the answer, didn’t know how to feel about not knowing. He did know that he wished that their roles were reversed. Because for all the terror in the wide, tearful eyes that met his for a moment, and the pleas that didn’t quite reach his ears, he knew the man was teetering on the edge of a freedom that was beyond him.</p><p>“This is a mercy,” he whispered, or thought he did, unable to even make out the whisper of his own voice as the roaring in his ears intensified, and the demon snarled its victory as he released the other mage. Barely, giving his feet time to hit the sand before striking, and the man had been stumbling, unbalanced on the blood-stained sand when Freed’s sword took him through the chest. A clean blow. A life snuffed out in a second, like a candle caught in a breeze, and as the man slumped against him with a sigh, something deep inside Freed died too.</p><p>    It didn’t show externally, his expression still twisted by the demon simmering just below the surface as he freed his sword, and let the body fall to the ground as he stepped back. <em>Everything has to be paid for in blood,</em> he thought, as he slowly wiped the blade on his shirt, just breathing for a moment.</p><p>    The roaring – was that his own heartbeat? – was starting to fade now, and he could make out his own ragged breathing, hitching as he felt the burn of his injuries. While the guards’ attempts to sabotage him had failed, they had slowed him enough that the Rune Knights had got in more attacks than usual, and he was feeling it now, as some of the adrenaline failed. He hurt, inside and out, and there was a deeper pain, a wound that had nothing to do with fists and blades, or wielded magic, and everything to do with what he had just done, that he wasn’t ready to examine just yet. Instead, he forced himself to finish cleaning the blade as best he could, before slowly, reluctantly, he lifted it over his head. The gesture of a victor, even though at that moment as he caught a glimpse of the devastation he had wrought around him, he felt as though he had lost far more.</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>    Then the air was broken by a shrill whistle, and it was as though a spell had been broken as the crowd burst into cheers. Whistling and clapping and laughing, as though they had just watched the greatest show on Earthland. Freed hated them. It burned in his chest, a vicious, ugly thing that threatened to choke him as his fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword, as he stared up at them. <em>Kill them. Stain the sands with their blood,</em> the demon purred beneath it all and Freed ached to listen, to let it have his way because they were celebrating and laughing, untouched by the blood he had just shed. The death in front of their eyes, as distant from them as the stars in the sky above. They didn’t know how it felt, didn’t care, because their hands were clean, and after all, it was only mages. He snarled – not sure if it was him or the demon and not caring – as he took a step forward, lowering his blade into a ready position, magic singing just beneath his skin, as eager to remain free, to be unleashed as the demon.</p><p>  If he could just break through the barrier around the arena, he could bring death and blood, and the aching, gnawing pain of this reality crashing down on their heads.</p><p>It would be so easy.</p><p>    Somewhere a bell began to toll, not the resounding gong that had started the ‘match’ – if it could have even been called that – but the instant toll of an alarm. Freed was distantly aware of it, blade already lowering, knowing that the chance had just slipped through his fingers. The demon wasn’t as convinced, snarling in his chest, and the sword was up again, runes forming in the air in front of him even as the first guards entered the stadium, armed and wary as they moved towards him. Freed was almost tempted to let it try anywhere, despite the weapons aimed at him, and the knowledge of what happened to those mages who were foolish enough to try what he was thinking.</p><p>
  <em>It would be so easy, and then he would be free. Not his magic, not the demon, but him…</em>
</p><p>   He didn’t even get the chance to decide as they swarmed him, circling him, and he had a moment to take in the shields they were carrying, to feel the power in the runes carved into their surface before weakness washed over him. It wasn’t the weakness that came with exhaustion or injuries, although both were pressing on him. No, this was unnatural, as the anti-magic barrier shimmered into being around him, anchored by those shields and cutting him off from his magic, from the demon that screeched its fury as it was forced back into dormancy. Trapped until their captors permitted it out to entertain them once, and then Freed was falling too, as the strength drained from his legs, sending him to his knees on the bloody sand, surrounded by the bodies of those he had killed.</p><p>    Lifeless eyes bore into his as he fought against the pull of unconsciousness, accusing and pleading in equal measure. He gagged, nausea rising as he bowed his head only to be confronted by the sight of the blood on his hands, on his clothes, on every inch of him. <em>Everything has to be paid for in blood,</em> he was choking on it, and there was no escape. It surrounded him, covered him inside and out, and he couldn’t breathe. <em>Laxus, what have I become? What have I done?</em></p><p>    The guards were moving in now, the barrier closing in on him, but Freed was barely aware of their approach as he began to claw at his arms, desperately trying to make the blood disappear even though he knew that it wouldn’t. That even when he was cleaned up, it would linger, an indelible stain on his soul that he would never be free of, and worse, he knew that this was like a droplet in an ocean after everything he had done. A sob rose then, broken and barely audible in the back of his throat as he lifted his head, forcing himself to look at what he had done, to look into each face, etching their features into his memory even as he shattered. Knowing that the crowd who were still cheering and applauding, some jeering at him, would never remember the lives that had been lost today, didn’t care that they had been people with hopes and dreams and memories of their own. That even the men and women and children who had shared food and quarters with these mages would soon forget them, and in their turn be forgotten. Until the only memory of the lives lost today would be his, and the bloodstain on his soul.</p><p><em>    I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…</em> He thought, knowing that the words were as empty the eyes locked on him, but there was nothing else he could say, and it was almost a relief when the guards were on him, the barrier so close now that he couldn’t breathe, cut off from his magic, from the demon, and falling. Already falling, pitching forward onto the sand, as one of the lashed out, the edge of the shield catching him across the temple and sending him spiralling into the waiting darkness.</p><p>****</p><p>     The healer had come and gone first thing in the morning. An older woman who had been escorted by two guards who had looked as though they wanted nothing more than to leave Bickslow to suffer, as he’d been reduced to lying doubled up on the bed, a bucket beside him as his body had threatened to turn itself inside out. He’d gained the impression that Makarov and the woman had known one another, as they spoke over his head, but the words hadn’t reached him through his misery and the rising worry about a man he barely knew. Because even when he had been alert enough to understand, Makarov had refused to fully explain what Freed was going to be doing, what he might be facing, just to get Bickslow this help. Now the worry gnawed at him, deepening his nausea, and distracting him, to the point where had jolted violently when the healer – Porlyusica she had introduced herself as – had settled beside him and settled a hand on his forehead.</p><p>     That had been when he had seen the shackles and realised that even the begrudgingly given help was just part of this hellhole. He’d seen magical healers before, and he had been surprised when instead she had examined him carefully. Forcing himself to stay still as she poked and prodded, and pushed him into nearly throwing up again as she ordered the guards to shine a torch closer so she could see, the light sending agony spiking through his head. Although, not enough to distract him from the fact that her tone had earned her a sharp yank on her restraints, or the threat to put her back in her cell before she could help. He’d groaned then, loudly, and stopped fighting the urge to throw up, and if some of it had ended up on the guard’s foot then that was purely accidental, the man cursing and stepping back, barking at the healer to fix Bickslow now.</p><p>“That was foolish,” she murmured, close enough to his ear that he was the only one to hear, and he tried to grin and shrug, only to realise that both were a mistake as pain spiked through his head. “Stay still and stay awake.” Fingers brushed through his hair, an all too fleeting gesture of comfort before she seemed to disappear for a few minutes, leading him to dwell in his misery, teetering on the edge of consciousness and wondering if it would be so terrible to topple over the edge.</p><p>    Before he could give in to the temptation, she was back, with Makarov in tow, and it was Makarov who shifted around behind him and lifted his head. “Drink this,” Porlyusica ordered, pressing a cup to his lips, and there was something in her voice that made him obey without question, only to gag as a disgusting taste flooded his mouth. It was only Makarov holding him in place that stopped him pulling back. It tasted awful, something herbal mixed in with something that tasted halfway between rotten eggs, and what he imagined old, leather would taste like. Somehow, he managed to choke it down, his stomach churning alarmingly. “Sorry, many of the ingredients that would make it taste better aren’t available here,” Porlyusica said, pulling he cup away, and he blinked up at her, trying not to throw up again, having a feeling that wouldn’t help anyone. “You’ll need to take that twice a day for the next couple of days, and rest for at least week,” she continued, lifting her voice, and Bickslow winced as his head throbbed in response, wondering why she was suddenly speaking louder.</p><p>“A week?” Apparently, the guards hadn’t gone as far as he’d hoped, and he hissed as the throbbing behind his eyes intensified, and Makarov shushed him.</p><p>“Thanks to whoever caught him, he has a concussion, and if you don’t want to kill him the first time he sets foot in the arena, he needs that time to recover.” Porlyusica didn’t seem fazed by the anger behind the question, rising so that she was between them and Bickslow, arms folded, and eyes narrowed at them. “Ideally, he could use longer than that, but I know you won’t allow that.”</p><p>    There was a hurried conversation, and Bickslow tried to follow it as best he could, still fighting against his churning stomach and trying not to let his tongue touch the sides of his mouth where the taste lingered. He wanted water, but he didn’t dare ask for it right then. Finally, there was a muttered curse. “Fine, we’ll let the overseer know. Leave the herbs here, Dreyar can administer them…correct?” It was phrased as a question, but even as distracted as he was, Bickslow could tell that it wasn’t a question, and was unsurprised when Makarov quickly murmured his assent. Porlyusica didn’t look happy, but she also didn’t argue. Instead, handing Makarov a pouch of what Bickslow assumed was more of the disgusting medicine he had just been forced to consume, and his attention drifted a little as she quietly passed on what he guessed was instructions. Then she was bent over him,  a hand on his cheek, drawing his attention back to her.</p><p>“You must take it easy, and gather your strength,” she told him, and he had a feeling that she wasn’t just talking about recovering from his injury and nodded slightly. That didn’t hurt as much before, and he blinked as he realised that the throbbing while still present was somewhat dulled and he blinked up at her, lips quirking in a weak smile.</p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>      She didn’t get a chance to reply beyond a faint softening of her eyes, as the guards still agitated over his diagnosis yanked her unceremoniously away from her side. Behind him, he felt Makarov tense for a moment as though he was going to intervene. By the time Makarov had relaxed, the guards and Porlyusica had gone, and Bickslow was pleasantly drowsy, the pain having receded to bearable levels, and he didn’t complain when he was propped up again a couple of minutes later. A cup pressed to his lips again. Relieved to find that this time it was water, albeit lukewarm and with a slightly metallic tang to it, and he all but gulped it down, washing the lingering foulness from his mouth. When that was done, and Makarov had settled him back on the cot with an instruction to rest, Bickslow found himself resisting the urge to obey, instead reaching out, somewhat clumsily to grip the older man’s wrist.</p><p>“…Freed?”</p><p>“He won’t be back for a while yet,” Makarov replied, looking towards the ceiling with a distant expression, as though he saw something beyond the narrow confines of their prison. “They will make him wait towards the end,” he continued after a moment, and there was a heaviness to his words that Bickslow didn’t understand or like, but before he could say as much, Makarov smiled at him, a strained, weak thing that didn’t touch his eyes in the slightest. “You should rest until then, let the medicine work.”</p><p>    Bickslow studied him for a moment, before nodding and finally letting his eyes close. He was worried, and he wanted to be awake when Freed returned, and it was far too easy for him to slip into a mercifully dreamless sleep, and he was out before Makarov rose to set about preparing the cot next to Bickslow’s with a grim expression.</p><p>**</p><p>    Bickslow wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep, long enough to feel almost well-rested, although the pain was still there, and his eyes felt unnaturally heavy. At first, he thought that Makarov had woken him, as he found the other man stood beside his bed, but then he realised that Makarov hadn’t even realised that he was awake and was instead looking towards the entrance to their cell, his hands balled into trembling fists at his side.</p><p>     Immediately sensing what it might be, Bickslow sat up, relieved when his stomach didn’t protest the movement, and his vision remained largely unblurry, although there was a brief spike in the throbbing that persisted behind his eyes. An improvement and one that saw him swinging his legs down to the floor, even as he turned to look at what Makarov was watching. Feeling as though he had been punched in the gut as he watched what he suspected was the same group of guards from the night before, hauling Freed back towards the gate to the cell. If Freed was conscious, there was no sign of it, his feet dragging across the ground, and arms dangling limply by his sides. Worse was the blood, and there seemed to be no end to it and from where he was Bickslow couldn’t tell if it was Freed’s or someone else’s, not sure if he even wanted to know the answer as he remembered the others telling him that everything had to be paid for in blood.</p><p>    He hadn’t known what that meant, hadn’t wanted to even consider what it might mean, and now his stomach was churning again. <em>What did you do?</em> He thought, not daring to speak as the man who was leading the group looked towards him and Makarov and smirked. “I see the healer has been,” his voice was mocking as it rang out, turning all eyes towards Bickslow for a moment. It was evident that he was enjoying every moment of what was happening, and Bickslow had never wanted to hit someone as much as he did at that moment. He didn’t reply, not out of fear because there was anger building in his chest, but because he didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t put Freed in a bad position.</p><p>“Yes, and it has been paid for,” Makarov apparently didn’t have the same qualms, although there was something about the words that made Bickslow feel as though they were done by rote, a performance done too many times to count. <em>How long have they been here? How many times has this happened?</em> Bickslow was ending up with more questions and fewer answers by the second. The guard laughed at Makarov’s words, before nodding and glancing at Freed as though he was a piece of meat on a hook.</p><p>“Yes, it has,” he gestured to the others, and one of them reached out and hauled Freed’s head back by his hair, letting them see his face. Freed was conscious, barely, eyes narrow slits that were so dark that it felt like he was looking into the deepest shadows, but if he was aware of them it didn’t show, his features lax and skin bleached of all colour, making the blood on his face stand out more vividly.</p><p>
  <em>What did they do to you?</em>
</p><p>    Bickslow wasn’t aware of moving, stepping forward on only slightly unsteady legs as the guards pushed and pulled Freed forwards, as the one that spoken opened the gate with a sharp order at those nearby to step back. He was distantly aware that there was more of the ‘prisoners’ than the guards, and yet they all drew back as though a weapon had been brandished in their face.</p><p>“Stay back,” Makarov barked, and Bickslow froze, belatedly realising that while everyone in the area had drawn back at the command, their attention wasn’t on the guards as it had been every other time their captors had approached while Freed was gone, but on Freed himself. A glint of fear in their eyes, as the gate creaked open, and Freed was shoved inside, and Bickslow struggled to contain himself as he saw a couple of them take a quick kick at the other man before retreating, laughing as they closed the gates.</p><p>    Freed had stumbled under the onslaught, falling to one knee before managing to catch himself before he ended up face-down on the ground, although how he was upright at all was a mystery to Bickslow because even if the blood on him wasn’t all his, he was visibly trembling and there was something about the way he held himself that made Bickslow feel as though he wasn’t all there. He made to step forward, not understanding why no one was rushing to help him as the gate closed and the guards left with more laughter and disparaging remarks aimed at Freed, only to find Makarov gripping his arm. “Wait, let him have a few moments…” It was said gently enough, and the grip while stopping him was loose enough that Bickslow even with the throbbing beginning to pick up again could have broken free, but there was something in Makarov’s expression that made him hesitate.</p><p>“What’s wrong with him?” Bickslow demanded.</p><p>“He just needs a few minutes to come back to himself,” Makarov explained, voice soft. The people around them were carefully making themselves scarce, and Bickslow had the uncomfortable realisation that this wasn’t anything out of the ordinary to them. <em>How do you become used to seeing this?</em> He wondered. Then he realised that the fear had faded from their expressions, and the few sideways glances towards Freed that he caught held something akin to respect and understanding, and a hint of pity, and it dawned on him that they were giving Freed a chance to collect himself. That realisation saw him taking a deep breath, and forcing his gaze away from the slumped figure, looking at Makarov as the older man continued his explanation.  “Freed’s magic, part of it at least has a mind of its own, and it can be difficult for him to find himself again after using it. Especially with how rarely we are allowed to use our magic.”</p><p>     There had been hesitation to the words, and Bickslow got the impression that while it was the truth, there was more to it than Makarov had said. He wanted to know, but at the same time he could understand someone trying to hide aspects of their magic even around other magic-users, after all, hadn’t he been the same with his own magic?</p><p>    So, he waited, impatient and worried, feeling painfully inadequate as he tried not to stare at Freed. He itched to help. It had been a long time since anyone had shown him kindness, and now this stranger had done goodness knows what just to get him help, and Bickslow couldn’t return the favour, didn’t even know where to begin, and it sat uneasily in his chest.</p><p>    It could have only been minutes but felt like a lifetime before Freed finally moved. Slowly climbing to his feet, with none of the fluidity or grace of movement he had shown before, and now Makarov released him, and before Bickslow could move, he was hurrying forward to Freed’s side. It was clearly a habit, and yet Freed flinched at his approach, and for a moment, it looked as though he was going to drawback, but then he caved. Allowing Makarov to wrap a supportive arm around him and begin to guide him across the cavern towards the cots, and towards Bickslow who found himself unable to move, or breathe, as he began to get a clearer view of the state Freed was in. Not all the blood was his, that much was clear, and Bickslow wasn’t ready to think about what that might mean, instead focusing on the tears in the clothes that marked injuries, cuts and bruises littering pale skin, wondering how many of them had been inflicted by the guards.</p><p>“…Bickslow, can you pull back the covers?” Makarov asked, in a tone that implied he had already asked, possibly more than once, and Bickslow blinked, realising that they were heading towards the cot next to his and immediately leaping to obey, stubbornly ignoring the slight swaying to the world at the abrupt movement. The covers could barely be called that he realised, but he pulled them back, clearing a space and stepping back as Makarov carefully coaxed Freed into sitting down. Freed was not looking at either of them, and Bickslow could practically feel the concern radiating from the older man as he reached out again, laying a hand on Freed’s shoulder and squeezing lightly. “Freed…”</p><p>“Don’t touch me,” it was barely even a whisper, and yet it lashed out like a whip, and Bickslow flinched as Makarov removed his hand as though burned. It took Bickslow a moment to place the emotion behind the words, to realise that it wasn’t anger like he had first assumed, but anguish. Something so raw and painful that it had his heart hammering in his chest and his feet carrying him forward before he could begin to second guess himself. He ignored Makarov as he shook his head urgently, and instead crouched down a short distance from Freed, close enough for the other man to know that he was there, but not so close to be immediately crowding him.</p><p>“Freed…” He tried tentatively, and Freed tensed but didn’t snap at him, and after a brief pause he was rewarded by a fleeting glimpse of the other man’s eyes, no longer shadowed, and terrifyingly human as Bickslow glimpsed the pain in them.</p><p>“The healer…?” Freed’s voice was soft, exhausted, but there was an edge to the question, a focus that couldn’t be denied and Bickslow nodded.</p><p>“She came,” he said, realising that Freed had looked away again. “Gave me some awful tasting medicine and got them to agree to let me rest and recover for a week.” It hadn’t felt like much at the time he was realising, but now looking at Freed, he was starting to understand that, that time was a precious gift.</p><p>“Good…” Freed breathed, and Bickslow didn’t know what to make of the relief in that single word, as though his words had just lifted some kind of weight from Freed’s shoulders, although he remained bowed, still not looking at them.</p><p>“I…” Bickslow started and then trailed off, not sure how far he could push or if he even wanted to, eyes trailing over Freed, lingering on the blood for a moment. “Will you let me help you now? Please?” He had a feeling that it wouldn’t come close to what Freed had done for him, that there was nothing he could do right now that would come close.</p><p>“You shouldn’t touch me,” Freed whispered, and the loathing in the ‘me’ was like a physical blow, and Bickslow saw Makarov flinch out of the corner of his eye. “Not now, not after…after…” He was choking up, sounding as though he was fighting back a sob, or perhaps to stop himself from breaking apart at the seams, trembling worse than ever.</p><p>“You did this to help me,” Bickslow interrupted, out of his depth but refusing to back down, guilt and a dozen other emotions gnawing at him as he inched closer, forcing himself to take in the blood that couldn’t have been Freed’s and the damage that Freed had taken for his sake. <em>Why are they doing this? Why did you let them? Why stand up for me? </em>He had so many questions that he wanted to ask, but he had a feeling that not only that they wouldn’t help right now, but there would be no answers forthcoming, and so he seized on the fact that Freed hadn’t responded yet, to push onwards. “So, you will let me help you now.” Part of him screamed that he should have phrased it as a question, that he had no right to demand anything, but he had a feeling that would have just encouraged Freed to refuse him.</p><p>    He could practically feel Makarov holding his breath as they waited to see if Freed would let him in. The silence stretching on almost too long, before finally, Freed’s shoulders dipped, his head falling forward to keep his face hidden as he gave a short, jerky nod of permission. Bickslow was startled, but Makarov looked downright shocked, and he filed that away for later, adding it to the endless list of questions he was collecting as he moved forward before Freed could change his mind. “Thank you,” he murmured, the words nowhere near enough to encompass the feeling in his chest, and Freed flinched at the words, curling in on himself, but not pulling away as Bickslow reached out to steady him as he nearly slipped off the cot.</p><p>“Don’t thank me…” Freed whispered a desperate, broken plea that was far from the man that Bickslow had first met, that he almost wanted to do a double-take. Freed wasn’t looking at him, or Makarov, but down at his hands, twisting them together, fingers clutched together hard enough to turn his knuckles white under the drying reddish-brown of the blood coating them. “Not after what I’ve done…”</p><p>“What did you do?” Bickslow had told himself that he wasn’t going to ask, not yet at least, not while Freed was trembling and hurt, and so close to a precipice that Bickslow didn’t understand that he was terrified of inadvertently pushing him over. Still, the question slipped out before he could stop it. Makarov cursing and stepping forward as though to intervene, but it was too late, and Freed had looked up, face a mask of grief and self-loathing, and something far darker, and Bickslow felt as though all air had been sucked out of the air as Freed swallowed thickly before answering.</p><p>“…I killed them all.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“…I killed them all.”</em>
</p><p>Four words.</p><p>Four little words.</p><p>    Four words that had been spoken so softly that Bickslow had needed to lean forward to catch them, Freed’s voice so quiet that it could scarcely be called a whisper. Four words that he wished that he’d never heard as his heart twisted and an iron band settled around his chest, the breath driven out of him as though he’d just been struck, or maybe it was the world that had no air in it, the sudden quiet that followed tense and fragile. Hiding a thousand secrets and truths, answers and questions that Bickslow had a feeling he wasn’t ready for, and he almost wished that he hadn’t asked the blasted question in the first place. Wished that Freed hadn’t answered his rash words, or that Makarov – now hovering uncertainly behind them – had managed to intervene before they reached this moment, Freed tense and raw, fragile glass around a storm of emotions waiting to break. Bickslow frozen and uncertain, locked in place, fingers still wrapped around Freed’s arm steadying him, his heart hammering in his chest, his mind racing, too many thoughts crowding through it at once.</p><p>    There was pressure in his chest, and his head, and he wasn’t sure whether it was fear, sympathy or rage that was making his heart twist and pound as he thought to breathe, to think, to understand. Not just what he had been told, but what it meant for him, for this man who had tried to help him, for what lay ahead. His head was hurting again, but he wasn’t sure whether that was his still-healing injuries, or from his attempts to wrap his head around what was happening and what Freed had apparently done in the time they had been apart.</p><p>
  <em>I killed them all…</em>
</p><p>     Bickslow’s questions had been piling up from the moment he had woken in this place, but now they were flooding in, and this time he was reasonably sure that he didn’t want the answers. <em>Who were they? Who had Freed killed? Had he really killed them?</em> He killed that question as soon as he thought it because the pain in Freed’s voice had been real, sharp and jagged, tainted with blood and guilt and despair. It was a feeling that Bickslow knew, and for a moment, his vision wavered, and he was on his back in the dirt, fingers around his throat as another hand groped for his eyes. <em>Monster. Demon. I’ll gouge them out, and then you’ll pay…</em>He blinked, shook his head, trying to drive the memory away, tried to focus on the present. It wasn’t much better, as his gaze trailed over the blood covering Freed. <em>How did you kill them? What did they make you do? Why would you…?</em></p><p>    No, that last one wasn’t a question he needed to ask, because he already knew the answer to it. Freed had killed because of him because he had been injured and had needed help. Freed had killed because of him, had paid for the help that he’d needed in blood, both his and others’, and Bickslow had thanked him for it, unthinking and unknowing. Had pleaded with Freed to let him help, as though that could balance the scales. Admittedly that had been before he’d fully understood what had happened, or what it had cost, and now there was a growing pressure across his middle too. A lead weight that settled into the pit of his stomach, guilt and horror and fear all twisted into one tangled knot that left him feeling dizzy and nauseous, as another realisation washed over him.</p><p>It could have been him.</p><p>    He could have been the one that had been forced to face Freed, or someone like him, someone like the numerous men, women and children he could feel trying to pretend weren’t watching them out of the corner of their eyes. Or Freed could have chosen to let him suffer, to let fate decide if he would pull through or not, and part of Bickslow wondered why he hadn’t, after all, they were strangers to one another brought together by a cruel twist of fate that had brought them together. Another question for later, if he could bear to hear the answer, he thought with a grimace.</p><p>    He could so easily have been the ‘them’, but he wasn’t. He was alive, and while his head still ached and his vision was growing hazy at the edges again, he was healing, and regardless of everything around him and the mess that he was in, that was a blessing. He had to believe that. He had to, otherwise the months on the run as a mage, hiding his magic and trying to be anything but he was, had meant nothing. <em>Perhaps it was, </em>a traitorous voice whispered as he studied Freed again for a moment, eyes lingering on the blood, both Freed’s own and that which had to belong to those other, nameless people, and then on the wounds that had been suffered for his sake. Then his gaze moved on, taking in their surroundings – their prison, and the fearful, furtive looks that were flickering more frequently in their direction, as though they knew what had happened, what Freed had done. And somehow, surrounded by all that, he couldn’t argue against that traitorous voice, and without meaning to his grip loosened and Freed who had been quiet and withdrawn since speaking finally stirred, lifting his head and swallowing again.</p><p>“Let go of me,” he whispered, a little louder this time, and it sounded too loud in the tense silence that had settled over their little corner of the world. “It’s all right,” he added as he tried to pull his arm free of Bickslow’s grip and sit up straight, wincing as he did so, and swaying. “You don’t have to help me, or touch me… I did what I did, and that was my choice.” Bickslow had a feeling that the words were supposed to be reassuring, to absolve him of the guilt sitting thick and heavy in the pit of his stomach, and Freed had done an excellent job, almost managing to sound just as he had when they’d first met. However, his voice betrayed him, wavering and cracking in the middle, and he was still trembling, trying to shrink in on himself, arms creeping up and around himself in a protective, self-hug, and Bickslow shook his head.</p><p>“I told you that I want to help,” his voice was steadier than he’d expected, and his grip tightened almost before the words were out, and before he’d even realised he’d made his decision. Stopping Freed from slipping out of his hold, and the other man froze, staring at him in surprise, as though he had never expected Bickslow to persist and he looked younger at that moment, less harsh. Bickslow was struck by the difference, and he wondered just how much Freed had lost in this hellhole, whether to the fighting or because of what he had done. <em>What he was forced to do,</em> he amended, as he studied Freed for a moment longer, taking in the calloused hands, the muscles, the grace that spoke of a fighter, all at odds with the grief and self-loathing in the eyes that met his gaze. He could fight, he could kill, Bickslow didn’t doubt that, but he refused to believe even for a moment that he was doing it by choice, and that was something Bickslow could understand, the memory fighting to break free once more. “Let’s get you cleaned up so that we can take a look at your injuries,” he said softly,  making it just shy of a command, squeezing lightly as Freed blinked at him, still caught off guard by Bickslow’s instance at helping and Bickslow forced a smile, waiting until Freed gaze a tiny, jerky nod.</p><p>“…kay…”</p><p>     Freed was pliant now, what little defiance he’d had draining away beneath Bickslow’s insistence, and he helped as much as he could. Even as he trembled whenever Bickslow’s fingers brushed against skin, as together they eased him out of his bloodied clothes until he was just in his underclothes. Bickslow easing one of the thin blankets up around Freed’s shoulders, hoping it would help alleviate some of the shivers that were now replacing the trembling, although he wasn’t sure if it was cold as much as it was pain and shock. Still, Freed gripped the edges of it, holding it in place, head bowed so that his hair fell forward, hiding his face as Bickslow got his first good look at the damage that had been hinted at but was worse than he’d expected. Removing the ruined clothes had removed a lot of the blood, and now it gave him a full view of the cuts and bruises across Freed’s torso, barely any of the too-thin form untouched, and he growled low in his throat.</p><p>    Part of him was impressed that Freed was still conscious, let alone upright and able to more or less hold a conversation. Another part of him was wondering just how many times Freed had gone through this to have developed this kind of endurance. It was another question to add to the pile and another one that he knew he didn’t really want the answer to, although he needed to know, if only so he knew what to expect once the period of grace that Freed’s sacrifice had earned him ended. He filed that thought and the questions away. He focused on what he could do now, weighing up the wounds, noting those which needed the most attention – a skill honed after so long alone on the run unable to turn to anyone for help, relieved to realise that they should be able to deal with them themselves. “You’re a mess…” He muttered without thinking, wincing at how insensitive that had been, startled when Freed made a noise that could have been a chuckle, although there was no trace of humour in his expression. “Makarov, could you…?”</p><p>“Here.” Bickslow jolted as the older man cut him off, settling a bowl next to Freed on the bed along with what Bickslow supposed passed for clean clothes and bandages in this place. He hadn’t even realised that Makarov had moved, he’d been so focused on Freed. Apparently Freed had been more alert, because he didn’t seem surprised, and he managed a small nod of thanks, before curling in on himself when Makarov looked at him and cursed, using language that had Bickslow gaping at him and Freed flinching.</p><p>“The guards.” Makarov’s voice was harsh and flat, and it wasn’t a question, and Bickslow swallowed as he studied Freed again, and the extent of the damage he had taken.</p><p>“The guards?” He asked.</p><p>“It’s their way of evening out the playing field,” Freed was the one to answer, trying to reach for the cloths and waters and hissing at the movement, and Bickslow batted his hand away. Dipping the material into the water and wringing it out, waiting for a nod of position, before beginning to wipe away as much of the blood as possible, lifting an eyebrow at Freed to encourage him to explain. “They’re allowed to bet on the matches, and there are no rules about them tyring to twist the odds to their advantage.” Bickslow made a disgusted noise, although he did note that Freed sounded a little steadier now that the conversation had shifted away from what he had done. Still, he knew better than to think it was more than an act.</p><p>“They also don’t like you,” Makarov muttered.</p><p>“There’s that,” Freed tried to smile, but it bore more resemblance to a grimace than a smile, and it didn’t reach his eyes.</p><p>“Why not?” Bickslow risked asking, rinsing the cloth and wincing as the water immediately turned red, and he felt more than saw Makarov and Freed looking at one another. A silent conversation passing over his head as he wrung out the cloth again and continued his ministrations.</p><p>“I won’t bow down to them…” Freed said finally, just as Makarov added just as quietly.</p><p>“He’s too good in the ring…”</p><p>“…not good enough,” Freed corrected, and the silence turned awkward again, but this time Bickslow didn’t understand why. There was a weight to it that hadn’t been there before, and when he risked a glance at Makarov, the other man seemed to have aged right in front of his eyes and Freed had retreated back into himself.  Bickslow frowned but carried on working, not sure that had the right to ask questions about whatever they had going on between them.</p><p>“Some of these are going to need stitches,” he said eventually. Once he’d wiped away the blood and dirt so he could see the injuries more clearly, carefully swiping at where his ministrations had dislodged scabbing leaving fresh blood oozing freely. “I…”</p><p>“I can do it,” Makarov interrupted, and Bickslow held his breath, half expecting Freed to refuse, and there was a brief pause before Freed murmured his assent. Bickslow nodded, silently berating the part of him that was disappointed and eased himself to the side, letting the old man in, startled to realise that Makarov had clearly been prepared as he was already unrolling a small pouch of needles and thread. His surprise must have shown because Makarov offered him a terse smile. “This part has happened a fair few times, and we’ve learned to do what we can without healers.” Bickslow didn’t need to ask what they’d done before they’d learned the necessary skills. He had seen what happened to people who didn’t know how to deal with injuries without magic or healers the few times he had found shelter with others. It was why he had forced himself to learn as much as he could, not wanting to end up dying in some godforsaken place just because the world had gone mad and decided he didn’t deserve help because of the magic in his veins.</p><p>   For all the that it had done him, he thought sourly, because he had ended up somewhere worse. A horror story made real, and he bit his lip, watching as Makarov threaded the needle with experienced hands. “Does…does this happen often?” He honestly wasn’t sure now was the time for questions, for any of them, but Freed actually looked relieved at the question, as though he was desperate to focus on anything other than his own thoughts, and Bickslow couldn’t blame him.</p><p>“Which part?” Makarov asked, not glancing up from his work as he settled on the edge of the bed, so he could get to one of the deepest cuts that ran the length of Freed’s side.</p><p>“The fighting…” Bickslow had meant everything – the arrival of new mages like himself, people being forced to fight just so a healer would be brought in, and the walls of this place that were closing in on him, but that was the easiest to put into words. Freed tensed at the words, or it might have been the pull-on torn skin as Makarov deftly started to stitch the gash shut.</p><p>“There are fights on most days,” Freed replied once he’d caught his breath, only the narrowing of his eyes betraying the pain Makarov must be causing, his expression blank as he turned his gaze to the far wall rather than holding Bickslow’s. “Most people will fight once or twice a week, sometimes less. And we’re just one group, there are at least eight other ‘groups’ that we’re aware of, possibly more.” Bickslow’s stomach, which was still tight and heavy with guilt, swooped unpleasantly at that. <em>There’s that many of us?</em> Some part of him must’ve known. After all, the rumours of this place and what happened to mages had been going on for a long time now, but some part of him had naively hoped that it wasn’t as big or terrible as the tales had led him to believe. But if there were that many groups…</p><p>“You said most people?” He asked, quietly handing Makarov the damp cloth when he gestured for it. Freed trembled at the question, the fingers still holding the blanket in place tightening until his knuckles turned white, and it was Makarov who replied, never taking his eyes off his work.</p><p>“Those who rebel or refuse to grovel at their feet, and those with the magic and skills to give the audience a proper show fight more often.”</p><p>    Bickslow didn’t need to ask to know that Freed was one of those people. He wondered if he should take small comfort in the fact that Freed could well have ended up fighting even if he hadn’t been there, but it did nothing to lighten the weight in his stomach, and he shook his head slightly. “That’s…” <em>Inhuman? Barbaric?</em> He wasn’t even sure he had the words for it, even after years of being able to see people’s souls and the depths of depravity that could be seen in the shadows around them.</p><p>“The way it is,” Freed finished for him, voice heavy and Bickslow could practically see the defeated air as it wrapped itself around him.</p><p>“Then why fight? Why go so far to try and help me?” Bickslow shouldn’t be asking these questions, he was too new, had already done too much  - <em>he did this for me –</em> and yet, something cold had worked itself past the weight of guilt to curl in his gut at the defeated tone. <em>If someone like him has lost hope, what chance is there for me?</em> He thought, knowing it was selfish, and that it also wasn’t the only reason he was pushing, but unwilling to consider those other reasons just yet. Makarov had faltered at the questions, and Bickslow wasn’t sure if he was about to intervene, or whether he was waiting for an answer, as the older man glanced up at Freed who still hadn’t pulled his gaze away from the far wall. Bickslow saw him mouth something, although he was unable to make the word out, just that it had made Makarov flinch in turn before Freed blinked and met his gaze.</p><p>“Because I won’t let anyone else die if I can prevent it.” The words were fierce and lined with pain, but Freed’s voice was cold, and any progress or connection that Bickslow had thought that he’d made snapped shut at that moment as Freed looked away again, distancing himself once more.</p><p><em>    Who did you lose?</em> Bickslow wanted to know, eyes flicking to Makarov who was paler than he had been although his hands remained steady as he worked, wishing that he could access his magic, sure that he would see similar shadows on their souls. Bound together by a loss he couldn’t understand. Instead, he remained where he was crouched and watchful, head beginning to throb a little more intently now, and mulled over what little Freed had told him.</p><p>He was going to have to fight.</p><p>    Not now, and not for a week thanks to Freed, but he remembered the guard’s irritation, and he had a feeling that even if he played the game and bowed to their will, he wasn’t going to be granted more than that week. A week to prepare himself for what was to come, it wasn’t long enough, although looking at Freed – at the cuts and bruises and haunted expression, old scars crisscrossing a body honed into a weapon – he had a feeling that there wasn’t enough time in the world to bring him to that point. Oh, he knew enough to defend himself, it was how he had remained free and alive for so long…<em>hands on his throat, at his eyes, magic sizzling beneath his skin, burning, surging, rising in response to his fear…</em> but there was a difference between those desperate moments between fight and flight, and walking into a ring and fighting for show. <em>Could he fight for that reason? In those conditions? Against people who were just as desperate to survive.</em></p><p>    Bickslow was unaware of the way his breathing had sped up, panic clawing at him, and he nearly leapt out of his skin when fingers brushed his arm before gripping his shoulder, just shy of painful as the fingers pressed deep and dragged him back into the present. Freed had lurched forward, and Makarov was cursing and pressing the cloth against the cut he was working on, and there was an apology on the tip of Bickslow’s tongue, but his voice wouldn’t work, a strangled noise all he could manage. “They won’t make you kill.” Freed’s voice, soft but firm cut through the panic as though it was a blade, and Bickslow froze, staring at him wide-eyed and shaking his head because he had seen the state that Freed had been in. That he was still in, and… “I…” Freed’s voice broke again, betraying his seeming calm, but he swallowed and tried again. “The healer… I could have paid for her without killing, it’s been done before, but that wasn’t the kind of show they wanted today…”</p><p>“But…”</p><p>“You’re new,” Freed cut across him, hurrying to continue as though it was only by getting the words out that he could stop himself falling apart again, and maybe it was, because he was trembling again and his eyes were wild, tears threatening. “They will test you first, and they will build up… and they’re not stupid, they know that not everyone can… that most people can’t…” The cracks from earlier were spreading. Freed’s voice was failing him, expression twisted with self-loathing once more, and Bickslow could hear that the other’s breathing was speeding up now, strained and far too loud in the quiet, and he reached up to grip the hand that was still holding his shoulder.</p><p>“Freed…”</p><p>“Breathe Freed, breathe,” Makarov was there too, wrapping an arm around Freed’s back as a sob, muffled and held back by Freed biting down on his bottom lip, wracked him. Freed shook his head, trying to pull free, trying to distance himself again as everything surged up again, and Bickslow took an unsteady breath, not sure that he trusted his voice to work right now, but needing to try.</p><p>“I can…” The words crept out, strained and so quiet he thought that no one would hear them, but Freed tensed and even as he continued to shake and tremble between them, wracked with sobs that he couldn’t hold at bay, Bickslow got the impression that he was listening. “I…” He didn’t know these people, not really, and this was something he had carried alone for too long, but Freed had bled for him, had killed for him, was falling apart because he had wanted to help him, and that was a debt that had to be repaid and Freed was one of the few people who might understand. “I-I’ve killed before…” Bickslow waited, not sure whether he was waiting for Freed and Makarov to recoil from him, or for the world to come crumbling down around him at the admission, and he felt as though he might throw up in the brief pause that followed, and then the fingers beneath his squeezed. A gentle touch meant to soothe not hurt, and he lifted his head, unaware that he’d even let it fall forward and found Freed staring at him with raw, red-rimmed eyes, the question in them plain.</p><p>    Bickslow held that haunted gaze for a long moment. <em>He will understand, he has to understand,</em> he thought, just wishing that he believed it as much as he wanted to. But, Freed hadn’t pulled away so far, although maybe that was because he was still breaking, coming apart at the seams, and Bickslow’s hand on his was still one of the few things keeping him anchored. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Makarov, although he could feel the older man’s gaze on the two of them, not judging, or at least he didn’t think it was, but watchful, wary as though they might destroy themselves. Maybe they would. Maybe that was why Freed hadn’t pulled way, and why Bickslow felt as though he could speak despite the fear and dread pressing in on him, because at least if this went wrong, they were already on a precipice. “It was a few months ago…”</p><p>   <em>The near misses with the guards in towns, and the groups of hunters who now trawled the countryside in Fiore and neighbouring regions looking for the mages that had slipped through their fingers, had been increasing over the last few months. Bickslow knew part of it was because some mages had grouped together and started fighting back against them, the stories trickling through the grapevine to those trying to eke out an existence in the shadows. There had been fights, and losses on both sides and while part of Bickslow could understand why they were fighting, and why others were rising to join them, he also knew that it was only going to fan the flames of the tension, proving to the non-magical people that magic and mages were dangerous. And that the people who were so blinded by their fear and hatred of magic these days wouldn’t differentiate between those who fought and those who just wanted to live.</em></p><p>
  <em>    It had been weeks since he’d last dared to let himself seek shelter with others, as the last place, an inn that had been run by a sympathiser had been destroyed during a clash between mages and the hunters, and Bickslow had barely escaped that encounter.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    However, there was only so much of being alone with his thoughts, and the growing feeling that he was running out of places to hide, that he could take, and he’d heard whispers of an old building that was used as a temporary shelter for fleeing mages. It had been a guild building once upon a time. Although it was fenced off, with signs proclaiming the various penalties that would greet trespassers and mages, desperate mages had found a way past the security, and it wasn’t hard for Bickslow to find the path that had been created.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    It had been hard to enter the building, imaging what it must have been like in its heyday. There had clearly been a fight before it was closed, the main hall was devastated, furniture upturned everywhere and scorch marks raked the walls and floors, and there were a few darker marks that Bickslow skirted and tried not to look at for too long. On one wall, he could make out what he guessed had once been a guild banner, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could just make out what looked like a sabertoothed cat – although part of the banner had been scorched, leaving just the front of the cat’s face with protruding teeth. He wondered if there was anyone from the guild still free. Or if once this was all over – if it ever was -if there would be anyone left to remember the people who had once called this place home.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>   Markings, visible only to those with magic glistened in the corner of the room, and checking behind him, he followed them, knowing that anyone who was already here would be hidden from sight as there was always a chance of hunters trying to catch them off guard. There were footprints in the dust that had settled on the ground, and they helped him locate the space between the bar and the back wall where a handle was concealed beneath broken stools, twisting it back, and pulling the rubble aside to reveal steps down to a cellar. With another glance behind him, he slipped down the steps, pulling the door shut behind him and feeling the magic working, as it pulled the furniture back into place to conceal the entrance, as a lamp flickered to life on the wall further into what appeared to be a tunnel. Bickslow breathed a sigh, unable to remember when he had last seen such effortless magic. There was a hint of enthusiasm in his step now as he made his way along the tunnel, and even if there wasn’t anyone else here at the moment, he thought that he might linger until he made contact with someone, if only to soak up what magic remained in this place.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Other torches flickered to life as he made his way along the tunnel, the ones behind him dying as he passed, and he only glanced back once, the darkness a little unnerving. Eventually, though the tunnel widened out into what he suspected was a newer cellar as there was an earthy smell as though it had just been carved out of the ground. That wasn’t the only smell, and his nose wrinkled. It was unpleasant and growing stronger, iron tainted with something worse, and his hand was already moving to remove his visor in readiness when he rounded the last corner and was confronted with the sight of bloody walls, and three bodies piled in the corner – recently dead, from what he could tell, the mark on the top man’s shoulder telling its own story.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>They were mages.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>     Movement out of the corner of his eye had him whirling, twisting out of the way just as a sword passed through the space where his head had been, and he felt the tip score a line of pain across his cheek, and he cursed, even as he sought his attacker’s eyes. His magic flaring. “Stop.” The woman – dressed in the blue and gold uniform of the hunters froze, face twisted with fear and rage as she tried to fight his control, and Bickslow huffed a sigh of relief, registering the movement behind her a split second too late, as her companion sprang at him. Caught by surprise, the man bowled him over, slamming him into the pile of bodies and landing on top of him, driving the breath out of him, and as he gulped in air, the scent of blood and death washed over him. Then there were fingers around his throat and tightening, and other fingers diving for his eyes, the man carefully avoiding his gaze, teeth bared in a snarl as he inched his fingers closer to Bickslow’s eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Monster…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>     It wasn’t the first time Bickslow had been called that, and he doubted it would be last, but combined with the murderous rage it hurt, and he flinched, the fingers gaining grown and he was choking and wheezing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m going to die here.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    The realisation did something to him, lit a fervent fire in his chest, and even as darkness clouded the edge of his vision, he started to struggle, straining to get enough leverage to toss the man aside. Hands scrambling across the ground, against a limp arm and side, and there… he felt cold metal beneath his searching fingers, a hilt… a sword? No, smaller, a knife… he hesitated for all of a second, felt a nail scraping the edge of his eyelid and drew it, and thrust blindly at the man’s side.  The Hunter had been prepared for magic, for hands scrabbling at him, the blade caught him by surprise, sliding into his side, blood warm against Bickslow’s trembling hands as he forced it as deep as possible. There was a pause, the hand on his throat tightening as though in defiance against what was happening. Then the grip was loosening, and Bickslow was coughing and spluttering and wiggling out from under him, as the man wheezed and groaned and clutched at his side.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>    Bickslow made it to his feet, bobbing and weaving, head pounding, just in time to see the woman break free of his control and lunge forward. Her sword sliced deeply into his arm, and he yelped and retreated, frantically seeking out her partner, who had made it upright and had dislodged the knife. “Wait…” Whatever he had been trying to say was lost, because he had forgotten himself and looked at Bickslow and at that moment, Bickslow seized control.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Stop her!” He ordered, more strongly than he’d intended, and the man had been caught in his intention lurching to feet, the colour draining from his face as he pulled the knife free, blood flowing freely down his side as he lunged at the woman. She had been turning, alerted by Bickslow’s shout, and she twisted into the downward arc of the knife, her own weapon clattering to the ground as she fell, dragging the man down with her. She was gone before she hit the ground, the man stirring feebly, trying to pull himself off her and Bickslow released him. Feeling sick to his stomach as he heard him whispering frantic apologies and pleas before the man looked at him with eyes that were dimming rapidly, but still burned with hatred.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Monster…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This time he couldn’t disagree.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry…”</em>
</p><p>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>“Monster…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>This time he couldn’t disagree.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I’m sorry…”                                      </em>
</p><p>“…You have nothing to be sorry for,” Freed’s voice was steadier now, and soft, the words meant for just the three of them, and it was like a lifeline. One that Bickslow found himself clinging to like a man about to be washed out to sea, following it back to the present, to the fingers still pressed into his shoulder albeit less forcefully than before. There had to be some irony to the fact that the gentlest touch and the most kindness that he’d experienced since Fiore had descended into madness had come here in a place that had to be closer to hell than anywhere else he had found himself, but Bickslow was too tired and wrung out to care. “You were just trying to stay alive.”</p><p>“But…”</p><p>“It’s a different world now,” Freed cut across the soft protest, and he wasn’t looking at Bickslow or the stone walls around them, but at something beyond. Maybe, a memory or maybe just a dream of one. “…you shouldn’t have been in that position, no one should be in the position where they have to choose between dying or killing.” It wasn’t a reassurance, it wasn’t forgiveness, not really, and Bickslow realised that he hadn’t been looking for either of those. Even though he’d thought that was what he’d wanted all this time. Freed’s voice was bleak, flooded with shared pain and experience, and in that voice and in those words Bickslow found what he needed.</p><p>Understanding.</p><p>“…how do you live with it?” He asked.</p><p>“You have to make a choice.” It was Makarov who replied because Freed had paled at the question. “It’s the only choice we have left to us. To stop, to give in to what this world is making us do or to keep going. It’s a choice that no one else can make for you.” There was a slight edge to that last bit, and the way his eyes were fixed on Freed left Bickslow in no doubt that this was a conversation they’d had before, and he wanted to ask, but he didn’t need the way Makarov glanced at him to know that it was a bad idea and he looked away and down.</p><p>
  <em>A choice?</em>
</p><p>   He wasn’t sure if that was something he could do right now, or if he would ever be ready, even with the balm of understanding they had given him. Everything was rushing through his mind at once, the past and present mingling, old pain rawer than the fresh pain of his injuries, and yet for the first time since that day in tunnels he felt as though he could see a glimmer of light in the distance. Freed’s grip on his shoulder tightened for a moment, and he lifted his head to find the other man watching him with far too knowing eyes. “It’s not an easy choice to make, but you have time.”</p><p>“You…” Bickslow knew in that instance that he had pushed too far, as Freed’s expression darkened and shuttered, and he pulled away. Withdrawing into himself and the distant mask he’d projected when they’d first met, and then his hand was gone, pulled free of Bickslow’ grasp so that he could turn away.</p><p>“Freed,” Makarov tried, as Freed recoiled from him too, wincing in pain.</p><p>“I’m fine.” It wasn’t ice, but steel in Freed’s voice, an impenetrable wall forming between them, and the older man sighed and let Freed go. Watching with solemn eyes as Freed settled on the bed, all but collapsing against the thin mattress as he curled in on himself as best he could with his wounds, his back to them, and his shoulders hunched as though he expected an attack at any moment. Bickslow flinched at the thought, the brief peace abandoning him as he wondered if this was usual, or if what he had done was now playing on Freed’s mind as well. Part of him knew it wasn’t that, but it was harder to convince himself of that fact, and he flinched violently as a hand rested on his shoulder, before realising that it was Makarov.</p><p>“You should rest some more as well,” Makarov told him, voice soft, and if he had noticed the flinch, he was kind enough not to mention it as he held Bickslow rise. The younger hating to admit how much he needed that assistance, his head swimming as the change in position, and he had a feeling that Makarov was the only reason that he hadn’t ended up in a tangled heap in the narrow space between the beds. It stopped him from trying to shrug off the supportive arm as he was guided back to his own bed, and he even bit back a protest when Makarov all but tucked him into the bed.</p><p>    He was glad he had when he realised that Makarov was hovering beside him, a conflicted expression on his face as though he was holding an internal debate with himself. “Makarov?” He asked finally, growing a little uneasy, eyes flicking towards Freed’s huddled form on the next bed over.</p><p>“I think you might be the very thing we’ve been waiting for,” Makarov said finally, voice low so that only Bickslow would be able to hear his words, before hesitating again. Following Bickslow’s gaze towards Freed and lingering for a moment, the sight appearing to give him resolve, because when he turned back, he reached out to rest a hand on Bickslow’s arm.</p><p>“Bickslow…”</p><p>“Yes?” Bickslow was careful to match his tone and volume, sensing that there was a cost to be paid here, he just wasn’t sure what it was, or which of them would be paying it.</p><p>“Don’t let him push you away.” It was a plea, barely louder than a whisper, and yet it seemed to echo, to pound in time with Bickslow’s throbbing head. <em>You have a choice. </em>He wasn’t ready to make the choice they’d been talking about, but as his eyes flickered towards Freed once more, he felt a flicker of something else. A purpose that wasn’t just staying alive. That had nothing to do with choosing between his own life and the lives of others…<em>like Freed did for me.</em> He had questions, and he wasn’t sure they were going to give him answers, at least not yet, but he already knew his answer, even before his head moved in a slight nod of its own accord. And it wasn’t the way Makarov’s expression relaxed that told him he’d made the right choice, but the fact that it felt for a moment at least, as though he could breathe easier than he had in a long time.</p><p>He had a purpose again, and while he knew that he didn’t want to remain here and that once he was back on his feet, he would need to weigh his options again, for now, he didn’t have to run.</p><p>He had an anchor.</p><p>    Makarov squeezed his arms in thanks, before retreating with a quiet order to rest before he lifted his voice so that Freed would hear him too as he promised to bring them food. There was no response from the next bed, and Bickslow might have thought that Freed was asleep were it not for the tense set to the other man’s shoulders, and as Makarov left, he shifted so that he was facing the other men. Watching him, studying him, trying to understand that he couldn’t even come close to unravelling at the moment, until his eyes grew heavy, and he fell into an uneasy sleep, haunted by nightmares.</p><p>**</p><p>   Freed released a breath as he finally felt the piercing gaze slip away from his back, just able to pick out the deeper breathing and hints of snoring from behind him. He didn’t move though or open his eyes from where he had kept them pressed shut in an attempt to dissuade any of the others from disturbing him and to stop Makarov from pursuing the conversation that he knew was coming. One that he built the foundations for by helping Bickslow, and he bit back a sigh. It wasn’t that he regretted helping, after all, he’d vowed not to lose anyone else in this place if he could do anything to stop it, and he’d kept his word, nor was it just the cost that weighed on him, the feeling of blood that lingered even though they had done their best to wash it away. No, it was the way Makarov had looked at him, looked at Bickslow, and the way he had reached out not to help, but to comfort, for the first time since…</p><p>
  <em>Laxus, what am I doing? What am I supposed to do?</em>
</p><p>    There was no answer, there never was. Laxus was free of this place, of the blood-soaked sand, and the man in his memories just seemed to smile at his questions…</p><p>
  <em>“I envy you,” Laxus said, and Freed frowned at the sudden words. They had been lying crammed together on one of the beds that weren’t even built to hold one of them, pressed so closely together that they felt each other’s every breath, the beat of their heart, and the simmer of warmth that could go no further surrounded as they were. But, now Freed stirred, lifting himself just enough that he could look down at the Dragon-Slayer.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“What do you mean?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You always know what you’re doing,” Laxus murmured, smiling up at him. “You don’t hesitate, you don’t doubt…”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I doubt myself all the time,” Freed countered. “I just know that you’ve got my back, and that lets me act against those doubts.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I don’t believe you,” Laxus leaned up and kissed him, just a brief press of the lips, all they would allow themselves with Makarov only a few beds along. “But, if my being here helps that much, then I will always be here at your back.”</em>
</p><p><em>But you’re not… </em>Freed told the Laxus in his memory, forcing his eyes open to banish the image, and lifting trembling fingers to dash away the traitorous tears that had managed to slip free. <em>You’re not here, you haven’t got my back, and I don’t know what to do…</em></p><p>There was no answer, just a low, snorting snore from the bed behind him.</p><p>****</p><p>    Bickslow had naïvely thought that Freed’s injuries would spare him from fighting, giving him a few days at least to try and reach out before he had to face whatever lay outside their prison. However, he’d woken the next morning, after being roused to eat and take more of the medicine the night before, to find the bed next to him empty and no sign of Freed anywhere in the space that was the extent of Bickslow’s world at the moment. The spots and smears of blood on the poor excuse for bedding piled at the end had terrified him, as had the rough bandages that had been dumped on top of them, and Bickslow had been up and out of the bed before he’d even remembered about his head. The sudden change in altitude leaving him reeling and fighting against a surge of nausea.</p><p>“Bickslow!” His movement hadn’t gone unnoticed, and then Makarov was there and easing him to sit on the edge of the bed. “Just breathe through it,” the older man urged, rubbing soothing circles between Bickslow’s shoulders. Bickslow didn’t want to wait though, and he lifted his head, not quite daring to shake it.</p><p>“Where is he?” The sudden tension in the hand against his back did nothing to reassure him, and ignoring the way his vision blurred at the edges, he turned to look at Makarov. “What?”</p><p>“They’re making him fight again today,” Makarov replied, apparently realising that Bickslow wasn’t going to let the matter drop, or maybe too worried to keep it to himself because there had been a waver in his voice. It was then that Bickslow noticed the bruise that was forming around Makarov’s eyes, and the welt high on his left cheek, as though someone had backhanded him, and he stiffened.</p><p>“You tried to stop them.” It wasn’t a question.</p><p>“You saw the state he was in,” Makarov snapped, before grimacing an apology. “No one should have to fight when injured, least of all him.”</p><p>“This isn’t the first time, is it?”</p><p>“Yes and no,” Makarov replied. “It’s the first time he’s been this badly injured in a long time, but no, it’s not the first time they’d made him fight while injured…or worse.” The last it was said so softly that Bickslow wasn’t sure that he wasn’t supposed to have heard it, and there was that grief again, one that ran so deep that he still couldn’t bring himself to ask despite his resolve to try and reach out to Freed. “He didn’t even try and protest this time, and I couldn’t just stand there and let them drag him out of here.”</p><p>“I should have…”</p><p>“You need your rest, and the agreement was made,” Makarov interrupted him. “It’s one of the few things they will respect, and even though they’d never admit it, they need Porlyusica, and she would stop cooperating with them the moment they ignored her instructions.” Bickslow’s eyebrows rose, wondering just who this woman was to get that kind of reaction from their captors, and he filed it away, not sure if that would be helpful in any way but refusing to dismiss it. “And as much as I hate it, and the reasons for it. It was Freed’s choice not to fight them.”</p><p>“What reasons?” Bickslow wasn’t ready to be as accepting as Makarov was, especially as his eyes settled on the bloodied bandages. “He didn’t have to fight…”</p><p>“We don’t have a choice,” Makarov disagreed and then sighed. “Stay there while I get you some food, and some water to wash down whatever foul-tasting concoction Porlyusica left you.” He held up a hand as Bickslow opened his mouth to protest. “I will try and answer some of your questions, but Freed fought to make sure you got that medicine, and they won’t give you more than a week to recover.” There was nothing that Bickslow could say against that, and he slowly closed his mouth and nodded. Makarov rewarded him with a warm smile, although it barely touched his eyes. “I won’t be long.”</p><p>    Bickslow watched him go, pausing several times on the way to talk to various people. Everyone seemed to know him, and it was clear that he was trusted. Did that mean Bickslow should trust him too? He still felt dizzy, his head throbbing quietly in the background, but he was starting to focus more, and as he settled back on the bed, leaning up against the wall so that he could survey the ‘room’, he could feel his mind starting to work. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that he wasn’t ready to try anything just yet, just as he knew that he couldn’t just sit here forever and accept that this was all that was left for him. He wasn’t going to die here, and he didn’t think that he could kill again.</p><p>
  <em>I killed them all.</em>
</p><p>    No, Bickslow couldn’t be that person. <em>Is that my choice?</em> He wasn’t quite sure that was what Freed and Makarov had meant, but it was a choice. However, he knew that everything was going to be set against that decision and that if he stayed here, he would either die, or be pushed to the point where his resolve crumbled, and he lost more of himself. <em>Until he became like Freed…</em></p><p>   That was a disconcerting thought, as was the realisation that the mere thought of becoming the man who had sat opposite him last night, falling apart at the seams, but still capable of offering understanding terrified him. He wasn’t that strong. Not alone at least he thought, rubbing absently at his pinky finger.</p><p>
  <em>“We’re going to survive this.” Evergreen’s hands were trembling, but the pinky that hooked around his was surprisingly strong, clinging of for dear life. “Together.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>   Bickslow wasn’t sure that he believed his best – and only – friend, but meeting her gaze, something that very few had dared to do even before the anti-mage sentiment has risen, he couldn’t give voice to that doubt. She had always been the driving force behind their mischief, refusing to let their magic, or the suspicion that greeted it, hold either of them back, making sure to drag him forward whenever he might have faltered. She might be shaking, but she was determined, holding his eyes and arching an eyebrow, demanding more than the pinky that he had curled around hers.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“…together.”</em>
</p><p><em>    Evergreen.</em> He hadn’t seen her since they’d had to flee, getting separated in the chaos. He’d looked for her, remaining close to his village for far longer than he should have, and having more than one near miss with those looking to capture themselves a mage, but there had been no sign of her. Had she escaped? Was she somewhere here in this hellhole? He didn’t know, but the promise itched beneath his skin, and his finger twitched. <em>Together.</em> He couldn’t keep that promise right now, but… his gaze shifted back to the empty bed beside him, he wasn’t alone anymore, not really, and maybe if he could find a way to get them out of here, some of that darkness would bleed out of Freed’s eyes.</p><p>“I recognise that expression,” Makarov’s voice startled him, and Bickslow turned too fast to find the older man standing on the other side of the bed, carrying a bowl of worryingly grey porridge and a lop-sided cup of water, which did nothing to help Bickslow’s lurching stomach. Still, he accepted them when Makarov handed them over, nose wrinkling as he realised the other man had already added the medicine to the water. “Don’t give me that face,” Makarov admonished as he settled on the edge of the bed. “Now eat up, and then I will answer what I can.”</p><p>    It was a good thing he’d given Bickslow that motivation, as it took everything that he had to choke down the gritty, grey porridge and foul-tasting medicine, his stomach feeling as though it was trying to fold in on itself in protest. “You get used to it,” Makarov said.</p><p>“I’m not sure I want to.”</p><p>   Makarov grimaced in sympathy but didn’t argue, taking the bowl and cup when they were empty and setting them aside, before turning back and studying Bickslow for several moments. Bickslow wasn’t sure what he was looking for and struggled not to shift and fidget, although he was about to give in to the urge when Makarov finally looked away. “I can’t tell you everything, some of it is not my story to tell.”</p><p>“Is it Freed’s?” Makarov’s silence was answer enough, and even though Bickslow wanted to know, he could understand, and he forced a crooked smile. “Then I will have to get him to tell me,” he said, remembering the purpose he had been given the night before. That much hadn’t changed, even with his thoughts turned towards the future, and the fact that he refused to stay here.</p><p>“And I hope that one day he will tell you,” Makarov murmured. “What I can tell you though, and what you need to know is that he doesn’t fight because he enjoys it. He’s a skilled mage and swordsman, but he’s only ever fought to survive and to protect.”</p><p>
  <em>I killed them all…</em>
</p><p>“I know,” Bickslow murmured, remembering the sheer devastation of those four little words. He might not know Freed, his opinion coloured by just how much this stranger had done to help him, but he couldn’t imagine that anyone would look at Freed and believe that he had enjoyed it.</p><p>“You’d be surprised,” Makarov said, and Bickslow realised he’d spoke aloud, flushing before it registered what the older man had said, and he blinked and stared at Makarov.</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“Not everyone who has ended up here has experienced the darkness that the world has to offer,” Makarov explained with a sigh. “It’s rare, especially these days, but some people found sanctuary and people to help them before they ended up here, and the reality of this place was too much for them. They saw anyone who had eked out an existence here by fighting, by following the rules just to survive one more day, as just as bad as the guards and people who come to watch the fights. People like Freed…”</p><p>“… they thought he was a monster?”</p><p>“Some,” Makarov confirmed and hesitated. “You saw what he was like when he returned, Freed’s magic is different. It has a life, a will of its own, and if it had its way, it would make a worse monster of him…and every fight is a chance for it to break free.”</p><p>“Freed’s trying to prove that he’s not a monster by risking becoming one?” Bickslow demanded incredulously. It was a reason to fight he supposed, and part of him could understand. After all, hadn’t he done the same when he was younger, using his magic over and over, despite people trying to convince him to stop, because he wanted to prove that he wouldn’t lose himself in the different souls. To prove that he wasn’t a monster. But, that was different than stepping out into a ring to fight other mages…</p><p>“No, he fights because it’s the only thing he has left. He doesn’t dream of freedom anymore, not since…” Makarov cut himself off, and Bickslow found himself leaning forward, but the older man shaking his head and offering him an apologetic smile. “That bit isn’t for me to say.”</p><p><em>They’d lost someone, </em>Bickslow realised, finally able to put a name to the echo of some shared pain he’d seen in both their faces. Someone they both cared for, and while Makarov wore his grief with quiet strength, Freed had buried his, twisted it into something else. Who? He wondered. Whose life, and subsequent death had carried so much weight, that their death had taken away any desire for freedom? Whose memory was Freed still fighting for? Bickslow wished that he had a name, but there had been something implacable in those final words that told him that no matter how hard he pressed, he wouldn’t get an answer. Not about that at least.</p><p>“…what if I decided that I wanted freedom? That I was going to do everything in my power to get out of this place? Would Freed help me?” It was a big ask, especially considering that he had barely been here a couple of days, and thanks to Freed had yet to experience the true horror of this place. <em>Together. </em>He could and would try it alone if it came down to him. He wasn’t ready to forgive himself for what he had done or to forget the lives he’d taken, and he knew that the world beyond this place wasn’t going to be better, that he would be on the run again, still feared and hated. That he might end up back here. But, he had to try, he knew that much. He looked at Makarov waiting for the older man to scold him for his naivety, his bravado, or to try and discourage him, but while the colour had drained from his features, Makarov looked unsurprised. “You knew that I would want to try?”</p><p>“I told you that I recognised your expression,” Makarov said softly. “There have been others who have tried, most have failed and died in the process. Some have escaped, only to end up back here again, broken and defeated. But it’s a dream that lingers and refuses to die.”</p><p>“It’s more than that,” Bickslow countered.</p><p>“There was a young man once, who was much like you,” Makarov said after a long pause, weighing his words carefully, trying and failing to keep the grief from his expression and Bickslow knew that he was getting closer to the truth. “He too dreamed of escaping this place. He learned more about the stadium than anyone I’ve known, not just what happens down here, but above in the preparation area and the ring itself, hoarding that knowledge, planning and hoping…”</p><p>“Did he find a way out?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” Makarov replied. “…and he never got a chance to try.” He rose, signalling that the conversation was over, although the look in his eyes had already had Bickslow biting back his next question. Not that he needed to ask, as he already knew what Makarov meant and his eyes flickered to Freed’s bed and back again as Makarov paused, shoulders bowed as though under a great weight. “But, Bickslow…”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“It’s not a bad thing to dream,” Makarov wasn’t looking at him, staring at the floor. “If you can still do it, then hold on to that dream as long as you can and do what you can to make it come true.”</p><p>****</p><p>   The guards had left him more or less alone on the walk up today, for which Freed was grateful as every inch of his body ached, each breath burning. He’d not slept. He never slept after one of those fights. He’d tried to tell himself it was because he needed the time to imprint the face of each individual he’d killed into his memory, but that was a lie because he could no more have forgotten their faces, their lives that had been spent on the edge of his blade than he could forget Laxus. No, he never slept on those nights, because he knew the nightmares lurked at the edge of his thought, and that the demon lay just a step beyond.</p><p>Last night had been different.</p><p>    Despite himself, once the cavern had descended into the quiet that marked their night-time, and he was certain that Bickslow was asleep, he’d rolled over to face the other man. He’d already looked a little better than he had, and Freed had clung to that fact, to the fact that some good had come of his actions. However, it was not just concern that kept his gaze on the newcomer, although he wasn’t ready to consider whether it was something more. Bickslow wasn’t the first newcomer. Mages were still being brought in, although it was more of a trickle rather than a flood these days, and Freed didn’t want to think about what that meant for the world beyond the stadium, and he wasn’t the first that Freed had tried to help. But, he was the first one to reach out and try to help Freed in return, to insist on it, and that had been before that raw, painful conversation about choices and what they’d had to do to survive. A conversation that had run deep, for all that it had barely scratched the surface.</p><p>   For the first time, it wasn’t just Laxus’ face that he saw in the back of his mind as he stepped through the gate onto the sands, but Bickslow’s too, and it was the latter that he focused on as he stepped forward to claim his sword. The trembling that had risen as he’d approached the stadium slipping away as he curled his fingers around the familiar hilt, attention not on the sand – cleared since yesterday, although he could still smell blood on the air, or on the crowd that roared at his appearance, but on the blade. Slowly lifting it until he could see his reflection in the shinning metal, one eye already darkening as the demon stirred, and he took a deep breath.</p><p><em>Not today. </em> </p><p>    He felt the demon’s surprise, followed by amusement – it didn’t believe him and Freed hardened his resolve, staring into his own eyes. The demon snarled, anger bubbling up, and with it came pain, like the sensation of clawed fingers ripping through his mind. <em>WHY? </em>It demanded, and Freed stumbled and barely caught himself, only distantly aware of the far gate opening, his unfortunate opponents about to step out on the sand.</p><p>
  <em>Because I choose not to be a monster…at least for today.</em>
</p><p>    Freed knew that he couldn’t hold the demon at bay forever, not when it had time to gather it’s strength whenever his magic was locked away and unable to resist him. Just as he knew that there would be a time when he would be pushed to his limit again when if he was to survive, he would need to rely on the darker part of himself. But not today, not when the flag had gone up indicating that this was not a fight to the death, not with Makarov’s words about choices ringing in his ears, and the glimmer of hope that he’d seen in Bickslow’s eyes at those same words. Perhaps it was too late for him to have a choice, let alone to have the right to make one. After all, he’d already made one… to keep fighting, to keep killing, to pay for his own survival and the survival of others in blood.</p><p>Did he have the right to make another?</p><p>    He didn’t know. He just knew that for today, or right now at least, he didn’t want to be that monster. <em>I want to fight as myself, at least this once,</em> he replied. He knew the demon would have seen the rest of his thoughts, and was waiting for the backlash, but while there was an echoing snarl in the back of his mind, after a pause he felt the demon subside. Not gone. Never gone. They were two sides of the same coin after all, but simmering beneath the surface, just out of reach, but waiting and watching and as Freed lifted his head to face the man who had emerged from the other gate, it had the final word.</p><p>
  <em>You will need me, maybe not now, but we’re in this together….</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>   When Bickslow had been growing up, any time that he had spent being laid up with illness or the numerous injuries he had got through the scrapes he found himself involved in, had felt like it lasted a lifetime even if it was only a day or two. Whereas, the precious week that Freed had won for him, felt as though it passed in a flash. It wasn’t helped by the fact that he’d spent the first few days dozing more than anything else, nodding off in the middle of conversations, unable to chase the questions that he had, and while he knew that it was necessary to heal, and he started to feel better about the halfway point, he begrudged that time, because he knew that time was a commodity in this place and the end of the week was looming like a date with the executioner's block.</p><p>    As he started to feel better – still forced to take the foul-tasting medicine that Makarov would thrust on him even if he tried to ‘forget’ to take it, he started to move around the limited confines of their living space. Eager to escape the bed, and to try and get to know some of the others sharing their area. At first, it was like pulling teeth, after all, he was new and untested, and they’d all seen everything that had happened with Freed and the guards because of his injury, and more than once he caught them looking between him and Freed. But, gradually, as the days trickled by, he found them more willing to talk to him. They would tell him a little about their lives ‘before’ but more about life in this hellhole, trying to warn him in their own way, while he would tell them about the world he had left behind, knowing they would find little comfort in hearing them, as the situation had only been getting worse.</p><p>    Those conversations, however raw and painful they could be at times, became his salvation because, despite the connection he’d thought he’d made with Freed, as the week wore on, Freed had pulled away. When he wasn’t in the arena – and Bickslow didn’t need Makarov’s worry to know that it was unusual for him to be fighting so often, but he didn’t know why, because Freed wasn’t talking to him. To either of them, as Makarov was usually with him, making sure he rested despite his protests, and so Freed had taken to avoiding him too, and Bickslow didn’t know why unless it was the nightmare and fallout he had witnessed on the third night.</p><p>
  <em>     Bickslow woke with a start, reaching out to stop the figure that had been bearing down on him, only to find himself blinking up at a now-familiar rock ceiling. For a moment, he had just lain there, heart hammering in his chest, and breath coming hard and fast. It wasn’t the first nightmare he’d had since that fight, and he doubted it would be the last, and soon enough he would have fresh material for his mind to play with, but it had been more vivid than usual, and he was surprised that he had woken so early as the last few times he’d been unable to drag himself out of it.</em>
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  <em>    A quiet noise had him tensing, hands reaching for something, anything that he could use as a weapon, even as he tried to tell himself that he was safe here. At least for now. Fingers curling into fists instead he lifted his head, pleased to note that there was only a slight throb of pain in protest at the movement and looked around. The lights had been dimmed so that he couldn’t see much beyond the slight pool of light that covered his bed and the ones closest to him, and so he listened instead, and there it was again, close by and something halfway between a sob and a whimper and he twisted in the bed.</em>
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  <em>Freed…</em>
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  <em>   The other man had been quiet all evening, bloodied from yet another fight. Bickslow had helped Makarov clean him up, and tried to talk to him, but Freed had been reticent and retired almost as soon as they were finished although Bickslow knew that it had been a long time before he had actually fallen asleep. The noise came again, and this time Freed flinched too as though struck, although he didn’t wake up, and he was reaching out, trembling fingers reaching for something only he could see.</em>
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  <em>“Freed?” Bickslow whispered, not wanting to wake the others as he slipped out of bed and crossed to Freed’s, rocking back on his heels as he got a good look at Freed’s face, or rather the tears that were trickling down his cheeks. “Freed?” He tried again, raising his voice as much as he dared, but there was no sign that Freed heard him, twisting and flinching again, murmuring something that Bickslow couldn’t quite make out, and then that quiet, broken noise again.</em>
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  <em>    And Bickslow moved forward almost without thinking, reaching out to rest a hand on Freed’s shoulder, shaking him ever so slightly. “Freed, wake up it’s just a nightmare.” It didn’t feel like ‘just’ anything, especially as Freed’s breath caught and he went rigid. “Freed?” </em>
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  <em>It was like he had flicked a switch as Freed came surging to life and lashed out. Caught off guard by the ferocity of the reaction, Bickslow couldn’t avoid the blow, taking it on the chin and stumbling back with a cry that he didn’t manage to muffle as Freed bolted upright in bed, chest heaving and eyes wild until they settled on him.</em>
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  <em>“B-Bickslow…?”</em>
</p><p>    Freed had been horrified, apologising over and over again, even though Bickslow had reassured him that it was fine and that he hadn’t hurt him – ignoring the way his headache had returned that night. Freed had hovered the next morning, quiet and ill ease, and Bickslow had let him in the hopes that it would help, and then the next day Freed had started to pull away. Was it shame about the nightmare? About how he had reacted? Even though Bickslow had been the one to try and shake him awake, even though he had at least some idea of what Freed might have been dreaming about? It was a possibility, Bickslow supposed, especially considering how private Freed seemed to be, but it seemed a bit extreme.</p><p>*</p><p>   He was hyper-aware of that distance that morning. The week that had cost so much was gone, there was no more medicine for him to take – which was one small mercy – and the guards who came to collect those who were going to the arena that day had just pointed to him. He looked towards Makarov and Freed, the fear that he had stubbornly kept at a distance all week surging to the front, especially when he realised that the latter hadn’t been selected for the first time in days.</p><p>It was just him.</p><p>    At that moment, he realised that he’d assumed that Freed was going to go at least part of the way with him and that he had been drawing comfort from that thought, and now he felt adrift and scared.</p><p>
  <em>I can’t do this alone.</em>
</p><p>    Makarov gave him a nod and a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and he supposed that was the closest they could get to reassurance when they knew what was coming. Still, it was something, because Freed had turned away, refusing to even look at him. That hurt and Bickslow fought back the urge to shout at him, to plead for him to at least look at him as he’d walked for the gate. <em>Why?</em> He wanted to ask. <em>What did I do? Please…please just look at me, tell me that I can do this, that I’m not walking to my death. </em> Instead, he forced himself to tear his gaze from the other man and focus on what lay ahead, on the terror that had settled thick and heavy in the pit of his stomach. He had seen the state Freed had returned in, had watched others coming and going with new injuries, had watched the tears when one of the women hadn’t returned, and he knew that he was about to be one of them, and suddenly all his grand ideas of finding a way to not only survive this but escape seemed as impossible as he’d expected Makarov to tell him it was.</p><p>
  <em>Please, let me survive this…</em>
</p><p>****</p><p>    It had been a long time since Freed had been in the position where he was the one left behind to wait for someone to return from the arena, and he had forgotten how the tension ate at you, a simmering presence beneath your skin that stopped you from settling and kept your thoughts constantly jumping to everything that could have gone wrong. <em>It’s his first time, they won’t force him to fight too hard,</em> he tried to tell himself, and normally that would be true. As hated as they were, they were also the source of entertainment and profit and as a general rule that earned them a little protection, especially when they were new and unknown, but Freed was worried that his efforts to help Bickslow would have drawn the guards attention. He wasn’t liked, and while he didn’t care what they did to him– or at least told that was what he told himself, he didn’t want to bring that down on Bickslow’s head.</p><p>    That was part of the reason he had kept his distance the last couple of days as the guards started to pay more attention to Bickslow, readying for Porlyusica’s injunction to allow him to heal was lifted. It had been harder than he cared to admit, and not just because Bickslow clearly hadn’t understood the reason for his distance, although Freed had been trying to keep him at arms distance before that, and Freed had felt his gaze on him even when he had been on the far side of the room. Had felt the hurt in it, and itched to apologise and reach out, but been unable to risk it.</p><p>    Harder still, had been resisting the urge to speak up or reach out or do something when he’d seen the fear in Bickslow’s expression when the guards had summoned him a short while ago. He should have done something, he knew that, but fear – a fear he hadn’t felt in far too long – had frozen him in place, and while he tried to tell himself that he had just been maintaining the act to protect Bickslow, deep down he knew that he had been a coward. Terrified on putting in Bickslow’s in more harm, of admitting that he cared, and yet here he was, head buried in his hands, and unable to stop his mind from playing through everything that could happen. Laxus’ image and Bickslow’ blurring in his mind, until it felt as though he couldn’t breathe.</p><p>
  <em>I should have said something…</em>
</p><p>“You’re worried,” Makarov’s voice dragged him out of his thoughts, and he lifted his head to find that the older man had settled on the bed beside him and he flinched. How far into his thoughts had he been that he hadn’t noticed him approach? That was a mistake that could get him killed if it was the wrong person.</p><p>“No,” Freed said, the lie slipping out automatically as he tried to settle himself, shoulders hunching as Makarov did nothing more than lift an eyebrow at him. The older man was one of the few people that had never been held at bay by the walls he’d built up, which considering his grandson had been the person to destroy them completely made sense, in the most inconvenient way possible. “Yes…” He amended, knowing that Makarov had seen through the lie.</p><p>“Is that why you’ve been ignoring him?”</p><p>“I…” There was no judgement in the question, but Freed felt as though he had been struck and he couldn’t look at Makarov. “I didn’t want to make it worse than it had to be…”</p><p>“And ignoring him was going to do that?”</p><p>“Yes!” <em>No. </em> Freed winced and looked down. No, it hadn’t made things better, and guilt gnawed at him beneath the worry. What if Bickslow fell out there without a kind word to remember? What if…?”</p><p>“Freed.” There was a warm hand on his shoulder, fingers squeezing tightly, grounding him and he realised that his breathing had sped up. “Explain it to him when he comes back.”</p><p>“But…” <em>What if he doesn’t…?</em></p><p>“He will understand,” Makarov continued, and Freed knew that he was choosing to ignore the question that hovered in the air whenever any of them fought. The possibility that none of them could escape.</p><p>“I hurt him…” He didn’t know why that thought bothered him more than anything else. ‘Hurt’ outside of injuries was a luxury they rarely had time for in this place where everything was narrowed down to survival, and yet here he was.</p><p>“You did.” The acknowledgement felt like another blow, but although Freed tensed, he didn’t speak, sensing that the older man had more to say. “I think he will forgive you though, as he seems to have a big heart.” That was an understatement, Freed thought. As much as he’d tried to distract himself with fights and distancing himself, he hadn’t missed how Bickslow had taken to talking with the others, and how easily he had been able to integrate him even with the wariest among them. Hell, look at the way he had taken one look at Freed’s boundaries and shouldered his way inside, and as much as Freed wanted to say it was because he had been injured, inside and out that had lowered his defences, he knew it was because of Bickslow himself. It was terrifying how easily Bickslow had found a place for himself here, and how quickly he had fit into this world.</p><p>“Too big…”</p><p>“He wants to escape you know,” Makarov murmured, and there was a roaring sound in Freed’s ears. It wasn’t a surprise, because as soon as the other man had said it, he knew that part of him had been waiting for it. <em>Not again. </em> Dreams were dangerous, why couldn’t they understand that? Why did the people who got close to him all seem to want to chase impossibilities? He tried to get up, the urge to flee overwhelming, even though there was no way to go. Makarov’s hand tightened on his shoulder, refusing to let him move. “Freed…”</p><p>“Did you tell him about Laxus?” Freed demanded.</p><p>“No,” Makarov replied, and Freed wanted to hate him for the fact that he hadn’t so much flinched at Laxus’ name, even as his own heart had twisted painfully in his chest. “Not directly at least, because that is your story to tell if anyone is going to. But, he had questions and he has dreams.”</p><p>“He’s going to get himself killed!”</p><p>“Maybe,” Makarov allowed.  “But not everyone has been defeated by this place, and is it so wrong for him to dream of a world beyond this place? To refuse to accept that this all that is left for him? Too many people think like that.”</p><p>“Including me?”</p><p>“Freed…”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Freed cut him off, looking out across the room. “It’s not as though you’re wrong,” he added under his breath, before looking back at Makarov. “I haven’t forgotten about the world beyond this place, there are moments when I still think about doing what we had planned, what Laxus dreamed of doing. But…”</p><p>“But?” Makarov pressed gently.</p><p>“I can’t,” Freed whispered. “He’s here. The memories that I have are all here.”</p><p>“Laxus wouldn’t want you to stay here just to cling to the memory of him,” Makarov said just as quietly and Freed flinched because he knew that the older man was right.</p><p>
  <em>“…escape…” Laxus’ voice was little more than a thread of sound, lost among the sounds of his fading breath and Freed only heard it because he was pressed against his partner, desperately trying to keep him anchored to life.</em>
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  <em>“Laxus…” Bloody fingers brushed against his lips, silencing him, and he met Laxus’ gaze, the blue eyes shadowed with approaching death, but fierce and determined at that moment, and even though he shook his head in denial, he found himself leaning forward to catch the words he didn’t want to hear.</em>
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  <em>“…please escape…for me…”</em>
</p><p>    Laxus’ final words hadn’t been of love or farewell, but of the dream that he would never see to completion. <em>I will, </em>the word had been on the tip of his tongue, ready to make a promise in desperation in the hopes of keeping Laxus with him just a little longer, but that had been the last thing Laxus had said, and the words had died with him.</p><p>“He didn’t want many things,” Freed whispered, trying to push that memory away. He didn’t want to remember that almost promise, ashamed of the small part of him that was relieved that he’d never managed to say it aloud, knowing that he would never have been able to break it. Blue eyes flashed in the back of his mind, seeing through his efforts and he closed his eyes, trying to banish the image, even though he knew it was impossible because Laxus was always there. As close as a thought, and as far away as the dream of freedom. “He… he told me to escape…” The words crept out, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. He had told Makarov most of what had happened that day, including his firm belief that it was his fault – something the older man had strongly countered – but he hadn’t shared those last words, that final desperate plea for the one thing that Freed hadn’t been able to give his partner.</p><p>   Makarov looked as though he had just been struck by lightning, and his hand fell away from Freed’s shoulder, the loss of contact cutting deep, but he didn’t speak, waiting for the accusations, the blame that he deserved. Instead, the older man slowly raised a shaking hand and pressed it over his face, breath hitching for a moment and Freed looked down. “What did you tell him?” The question when it came wasn’t as unexpected as Freed wanted it to be.</p><p>“…I never got chance to reply…”</p><p>“What would you have told him?” Makarov had lowered his hand, eyes fierce and far too bright as he focused on him, and Freed knew that he already knew the answer.</p><p>“It doesn’t matter.”</p><p>“Yes, it does,” Makarov rarely raised his voice, it was why everyone listened to him, but now it was rising and drawing attention and Freed’s breath caught. “You’re sitting there, and telling me that you’ve given up and accepted what is happening to you because of his memory, but what about that part of his memory? What about what he wanted for you?”</p><p>“I…” Freed swallowed. <em>Please, don’t make me say it. </em>He knew that Makarov was right, he’d always known it, which was he’d always done everything that he could to stop himself from remembering those final words. That final request. Makarov was staring at him, uncaring of the attention that was slowly veering away from them now that their voices had dropped once more, and Freed knew that he wasn’t going to get away with not answering even as he ducked his head to try and hide from that gaze. Taking a shaky breath and then another, as he twisted his hands together, eyes locked on the cuts and bruises from the last few days of fighting, closing his eyes as he tried to lose himself in another, happier memory.</p><p>
  <em>“…I love your hands,” Laxus murmured, lifting one of them and pressing a kiss to the palm and Freed fought the urge to squirm. Unable, to stop himself from smiling as Laxus proceeded to trail small, butterfly kisses up each finger in turn, lingering on the cuts from his last fight. He knew that the Dragon-Slayer hated it when he fought in the arena and that he took each wound personally, as though he could prevent it. Freed had given up trying to assuage him of that guilt, not least because he felt the same, eyes drifting to the bandage wrapped around Laxus’ right eye where a deep gash had almost cost him that eye. Laxus caught where he was looking, and sighed, kissing his palm again and then bringing his hand close to his chest. “It’s healing well, and Porlyusica says it’s going to leave nothing but a scar.”</em>
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  <em>“I know, but…”</em>
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  <em>“Freed,” Laxus cut him off, and Freed ducked his head. “It’s…” He trailed off and Freed felt him stiffen, head flying up as he heard Laxus choke on a breath and his eyes widened with horror as he instead of the younger, unbeaten Laxus he’d been with second before he was staring into bloodied features, and shadowed eyes as Laxus reached for him. “…escape… please escape…for me…”</em>
</p><p>    Freed jerked, shaking his head and breathing fast. He wouldn’t be free of it, not now. Not now he had spoken it aloud, and he wanted to weep and curse and scream. Instead, he lifted his head and forced himself to meet Makarov’s gaze. “I was going to tell him ‘I will’,” he whispered. There was no relief at the admission, no lifting of the weight on his heart, instead, he felt open and vulnerable. “But it’s too late…” That had been another failure, he had been so focused on denying on what was happening, on keeping Laxus alive and with him for another second longer, that he’d lost the chance to reply. To give Laxus the one thing he had wanted at that moment, and as relieved as he was that he hadn’t been caught in a promise he couldn’t keep, he hated that he hadn’t been able to give Laxus that much.</p><p>“Is it?” Makarov asked, and Freed shook his head, pleading and denying all at once. <em>Please don’t ask me that, don’t ask me to keep that promise…</em> He couldn’t keep that promise. He didn’t have it left in him. He fought to eke out one more day, nothing more, nothing less. The Freed who had allowed himself to hope that there could perhaps be something more, the one who had allowed Laxus to share his dream with him until it had become their dream, might as well have died with the Dragon-Slayer that day, leaving behind a shade of the man that Laxus had loved. He couldn’t dream anymore, he couldn’t hope, he couldn’t… and yet even as he thought it, the image of Bickslow crouched in front of him, and asking for permission to help him flashed through his mind. <em>I can’t do it again, I can’t… I won’t.</em></p><p>    There were fingers on his chin, lifting his head that he wasn’t aware of having bowed, and forcing him to meet Makarov’s gaze which was softer now, but still too bright with tears that he was refusing to shed. “It’s never too late until you’re gone. Laxus hasn’t left us, not completely, and he will know and I will know, and you will know.”</p><p>“I…”</p><p>“I know that the thought of living without him,” Makarov’s voice cracked and broke, and he had to pause and look away, looking every bit his age at that moment and Freed wanted to reach out and comfort him, but he couldn’t move or think, locked in place as the older man gathered himself and turned back to him. “That the thought of a life where this, and Laxus, are just a memory terrifies you. I know that it might not be possible, that you might try and fail, but Freed, there is far more to this life and this world than the past. There is more than Laxus.”</p><p>“How can you say that?” Freed snarled, trying to pull away. “Laxus is…was…” He couldn’t speak, anger and pain fighting for dominance.</p><p>“Because, I knew my grandson and I knew how he felt about you, and I know that this isn’t what he would want for the man he loved!” Makarov matched him tone for tone, but there was an underlying gentleness, which made his words hurt all the more. “Yes, he dreamed of freedom and a life beyond this hellhole, but more than that, he dreamed of those things for you.”</p><p>“He…”</p><p>“There was one time when you had been brought back after a fight that gone very badly, and they’d been forced to bring Porlyusica to you and even she hadn’t been able to guarantee that you would survive…” Makarov interrupted him again, voice growing soft now and Freed subsided, listening, even as he clenched and unclenched his hands. “It wasn’t the first time you had been in that position, but it was bad, and Laxus refused to leave your side, even when the guards threatened and punished him for it. He sat there day and night, holding your hand, and waiting. And he told me then, that he didn’t care what happened to him. That he didn’t care what it would cost but he was going to find you a way out of here.”</p><p>“But, it was his dream…” Freed protested weakly. He didn’t doubt Makarov, because that sounded like something Laxus would have said, no matter how much he wanted to deny it.</p><p>“No,” Makarov smiled, and it held so much sorrow that Freed’s breath caught. “That’s just the one he talked about and showed to the world, but it was you. You were his dream, the one thing that made all of this bearable, and the reason he could keep going, and keep fighting.”</p><p><em>    You were his dream…</em> Freed wished that he’d pulled away, that he’d refused to listen, because those words as soft, and gently as they had been spoken cut deep. Finding their way through walls and scars, and curling around his heart, until it felt as though he could feel them with each shaky breath he was taking. <em>You were his dream… escape…for me…</em> He shook his head, trying to drive the words away, trying to deny the inevitability that he could feel creeping up on him. “No…”</p><p>“Freed…”</p><p>“No,” he repeated desperately, as though that would be enough to bring everything to a halt. The memories, the emotions that forming a storm in his chest, Makarov…</p><p>
  <em>You were his dream…</em>
</p><p>Him.</p><p>A monster.</p><p>    Laxus had known about that side of him, there was no way that Freed could have kept it hidden even if he’d wanted to, and he had accepted it. But that had been then, back when Freed had still had a reason to try and remain as human as possible. Back when he’d had Laxus there to keep him grounded, to make him want to come back to himself despite the blood on his hands, and the lives that had left scars that couldn’t be kissed away.</p><p>
  <em>You were my dream…escape for me…</em>
</p><p>   Everything was blurring together, and the sob when it came caught him by surprise more than it should have done, and he curled in on himself, trying to hold himself together and keep everything else at bay. Already knowing that it was a lost cause, even as he felt Makarov shifting, the fingers no longer on his chin, as a warm arm snaked around his shoulders. A harbour in the storm. He didn’t deserve it, not when he was the reason that Laxus wasn’t here. Not when he had taken the Dragon-slayer away from this grandfather in every way possible. It should have been Makarov that Laxus had tried to get freedom for, who he should have been willing to sacrifice everything for, not Freed who was a breath away from becoming a monster every time he stood in that place where Laxus had fallen.</p><p>“He loved you,” Makarov was talking, voice low and soothing, the words just for them and Freed wanted to scream at him to stop, but he couldn’t speak as quiet sobs wracked him. <em>You were his dream. He loved you. I loved him. I love him…</em> “He didn’t care what you had been forced to do, what you might become if you ever fully lost control. He knew all that, saw it all, and he saw who you were despite all that and he loved you.”</p><p>“S-stop…”</p><p>“But he wouldn’t want this from you,” Makarov wasn’t stopping, and there was steel in his voice. The man who had once been a guild-master, and who quietly governed their small corner of this world slipping through, although his hold on Freed remained as gentle and comforting as before. “He told me what he wanted, he told you, and if you want to sit there and tell me that you’re still here, that you’ve given up on that dream because of his memory, then I hate to tell you, but you’re lying. To me, to his memory and to yourself, because his memory isn’t tied to this place. It’s tied to you, and to me, and to that dream.”</p><p>“What do you want me to do…?” Freed asked, exhausted beyond all belief. Each word had cut deep, but he couldn’t argue, couldn’t fight, because Makarov was right, and he hated it. “I…” He hiccupped and closed his eyes. “I don’t know how to dream anymore…I don’t know…” He couldn’t see a world beyond this place, couldn’t see anything beyond the ghost of Laxus that was always there watching him, waiting for the moment it was his blood on the sand. “L-Laxus was my dream and…” <em>He’s gone,</em> he couldn’t say it even now, but he knew that Makarov understood.</p><p>“That’s one of the things about dreams, they can change…and sometimes, you can find a new one to chase,” Makarov murmured. “I want you to move forward and find a new one for yourself. And maybe you won’t be able to achieve it, maybe it will always be a dream, but at least you will have tried and that is what Laxus would have wanted for you. If he couldn’t have a life with you, then he would want you to find one for yourself and maybe Bickslow and his dreams will help you with that.”</p><p>“I…”</p><p>“I’m not telling you to forget Laxus,” Makarov said. “I’m not telling you to move on before you’re ready, but I am asking you to try and move forward, and to live, and not just for Laxus but for yourself.” Freed could hear the pain and could only imagine the effort it was taking to say this. Laxus’ death had broken them both in different ways, was still leaving fresh fracture lines with each day that passed, but here Makarov was trying to help him move forward.</p><p>Giving him a choice.</p><p>It was always about choices, and Freed took a shuddering breath, released it with a hiccupping sob as the ghost of Laxus in his mind smiled and nodded.</p><p>“I can try…”</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>   Bickslow knew that he should be using the time outside their living space to take in what he could if he wanted to find a way out of here, but he couldn’t focus past the fear that had tightened its claws in his chest. His heartbeat a constant low drum in his ears, blocking out everything but the rattle of the chains around his wrists and his own heavy footsteps, each step taking him closer to the fight he wasn’t ready for. <em>How many times had Freed done this? Did his heart hammer like thunder too? </em>He wasn’t sure that he wanted to know the answer, or even think about the other man right now, but it was better than imaging what lay ahead and easier than listening to what the guards were saying as he was herded forward with the others.</p><p>   Eventually, he became aware of another noise, one that seemed to thrum through the very rock around them – rock that had grown a lot smoother now, and although he had no way of confirming it, he had a feeling that they were higher up than they had been. Swallowing, and trying to force back his fear as best he could, he lifted his head and looked around. There wasn’t much to see in the corridor they were following, sheer walls that were unadorned apart from torches and what appeared to be lacrima, which considering the stillness beneath his skin he suspected was linked to the magic suppression that lay over their prison. So no weapons here that he could use, and he hated the fact that he was almost relieved by that realisation, not sure he would have had the courage to act even if there had been something for him to use. Instead, he turned his attention to the sound that had dragged him back to the present, it wasn’t constant, rising and falling in waves, and it was only as they turned onto another corridor that he realised what it was.</p><p>Voices. Dozens, no hundreds…or more. Certainly more than he had ever heard before, rising and falling in cheers, the sound distorted as it echoed through the rock, and it seemed to roll through his body too, leaving him feeling sick to the stomach.</p><p>The audience.</p><p>    He’d known that they were there, even if Freed hadn’t been willing to talk about what happened in the arena, others had filled him in on some of it, but somehow that had felt distant. As though there was no way it could apply to him, and yet as the noise swelled again, sweat gathered around his neck. They were going to watch as he fought, as he hurt others or fell. They were going to watch and cheer.</p><p>
  <em>And yet we’re the ones that call ourselves monsters?</em>
</p><p>    Bickslow had always been slow to anger, but now he could feel fury coiling in the pit of his stomach. All sharp edges, and rolling thunder, and he wasn’t sure that he could hold it in. Wasn’t even sure that he wanted to, as he felt it cut through the ice of his fear and nausea. <em>Monster. Human. </em>It was a comparison that had been levelled at him far too many times over the years, and yet in that instance, as the guards shoved him forward as his pace slowed for a moment, and the cheers of the crowd above echoed through rock and bone, he had an answer he wasn’t even looking for. <em>We’re the humans here…</em> his head that he hadn’t realised he’d been keeping bowed rose, and he didn’t flinch as a guard cuffed his ear and snarled something at him, refusing to look away, wishing for the first time that he had his magic simmering within his gaze as he looked at them. There was not even a spark though, and his defiance earned him another blow, this one to the mouth and he felt the blood that trickled from a freshly split lip but didn’t flinch.</p><p>
  <em>One day.</em>
</p><p>    It was nothing. A silent promise made in the depths of his heart, wrapped in fury and determination, but it steadied him as he was shoved forward. He didn’t fight them, even as every part of him screamed at him too. He knew that this wasn’t his chance to escape, otherwise, others would have done it before him. So, he let them haul him onwards, down another corridor and ever closer to the sound of the crowd. They passed a metal gate and turned down another corridor that ended in another gate, this one not as heavily built, and he wondered at the difference, wishing that he knew more about what was to come.</p><p>    The gate was unlocked, and now he did pay attention, eyebrows rising as he noted how many locks were on the door. At least three, and another that looked as though it might be magical in nature, although it was obviously limited as there was still no trace of his magic. <em>Cautious? Or frightened?</em> He wondered, knowing that there was little many of the prisoners here would be able to do without their magic. At the height of their strength, a mage was usually physically stronger too, part of training their bodies to handle their magic, but how many people here were at the height of their strength? Even Freed who was clearly one of the stronger fighters in this place, or at least of those that Bickslow had encountered so far was worn thin by life here. Bickslow was fresher, despite his injury, but even he wasn’t sure he could deal with those locks without his magic, so why the precaution? Had someone escaped? Or at least come close? He was going to have to ask around, Makarov might know something, or at least know who had been here longest, and…</p><p>   A shove between his shoulder blades had him toppling forward, and he stumbled and caught himself, looking behind him as the guards jeered at him. He was free of the shackles he realised, cursing himself for being so distracted, but as the metal gate swung shut, with him on the inside and them on the outside, he realised that it probably wasn’t a good thing. He dared glower at them for a moment, before turning to look around. He was in a well-lit room, lined with wooden benches but little else. The room was otherwise bare, just like the corridors he had passed through, but he also wasn’t alone, as there was a couple of dozen men and women sat around the room, and his breath caught as he looked around. Some were bandaged, clearly bearing the damage from previous bouts, others looked fresh like him, and there was a cloying miasma of fear and despair in the air, and he could feel that sinking in as he took a step forward.</p><p>Were these the ones he was going to have to fight?</p><p>   People who were in exactly the same boat as him? Men and women who had done nothing wrong other than being born with magic? <em>None of us are monsters.</em> He couldn’t bring himself to meet anyone’s eyes as his arrival was greeted with wary glances and the odd whisper between those that clearly knew one another. How could he look them in the eye when he knew what was coming? How could any of them be sat there, some pressed close together, some holding hands as though this might be the last time, and it might… was this why Freed was so wary of opening up? Had he been warning Bickslow in his own way? That might have been part of it he realised, but he was also certain there was more than that.</p><p>“Is this your first time in the arena?” The voice caught him by surprise as his avoidance seemed to have been matched by those around him, and he looked up to find a woman stood in front of him, arms crossed, and head tilted as though she was looking at a curiosity. Even as he lifted his head, her gaze seemed to slide just past his gaze, as though she was avoiding meeting his eyes. It was an action he recognised, and he offered her a strained smile before remembering his decision to maintain a distance between him and the people around him.</p><p>“Is it that obvious?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.</p><p>“Considering you looked like a ghost when you saw us, yes…”</p><p>“Sorry, I…”</p><p>“You won’t be fighting us,” she interrupted, and he blinked. “Didn’t anyone tell you anything?”</p><p>“They told me enough,” Bickslow replied, feeling the need to defend the people he had been talking with, and stubbornly keeping his thoughts away from Freed. “I just assumed…”</p><p>“They tend to try and keep us away from those we’re going to fight,” she explained, not looking convinced by his words. “I’ve been sure why… although maybe because of the expression you had on your face.”</p><p>“Is it any better to fight a stranger?”</p><p>“No, I suppose not,” she murmured, before abruptly thrusting out her hand. Not sure what else to do Bickslow took it, feeling the callouses and scars that he was coming to realise were just part of life here. “Evergreen.”</p><p>“Bickslow.”</p><p>“So, Bickslow…” Evergreen started and then trailed off, dropping his hand as though burned as there was a rattling noise from the opposite end of the room and another gate that he hadn’t noticed was opening. “If you want a piece of friendly advice, don’t draw attention to yourself out there. We’re the fodder, the appetiser before the stronger fighters take to the arena, and you want to stay in this group if you want to survive more than a few days.”</p><p>“I intend to do more than survive,” he muttered, and she shot him a look that was part pity, part amusement and part curiosity.</p><p>“Focus on today first.” It was a final partying shot as she moved away, putting a good distance between them and settling on the edge of one of the benches, away from anyone and looking disinterested as four guards stepped through the far door.</p><p>    It reminded Bickslow of the games he’d played as a child, waiting to be picked for one team or another, and usually picked last as the guards would select groups – sometimes just a couple of people, sometimes up to five or six and order them through the door. Only this was far worse. It was like watching each grain of sand trickle through an hourglass a piece at a time, the time marked only by swells and lows in the cries of the crowd which were all but deafening now. Those chosen didn’t return, and Bickslow had no idea if that meant that they had fallen against who they were fighting, or if they were taken back inside a different route, and again he had to wonder why they were so cautious against people they had such control over. He might have asked Evergreen, but she had studiously ignored him as the first few groups were chosen, and then she had been selected with a group of four others, leaving Bickslow without a friendly face to turn to.</p><p>    It felt like a lifetime had passed, and yet no time at all, before the guard’s attention turned to him and he was ordered to his feet along with three others who carefully avoided looking at him. He couldn’t blame them, and instead, he focused on what lay ahead as they were funnelled through the door and into a narrow passageway, the guards behind them, as though to stop them bolting. Bickslow could understand that at least, because with each step he took the sound of the crowd rose, and the fear that had receded for a bit was surging forward again, heart pounding sickeningly in his chest.</p><p>   He wasn’t sure if there was some marking, some indication of a barrier that he had missed in his nervousness but there was a loud metallic clang behind them as a grate dropped between them and the guards. Leaving them with no option but to move forward, and after a dozen more steps he felt something he hadn’t felt since his capture as his magic welled up beneath his skin, and he couldn’t stop the gasp that slipped out. He knew that he wasn’t alone in his relief, a glance at the others showed that one of the women had tears on her cheeks, another had her hand curled into a fist, flames sparking around her fingertips, while the man was shaking and looking as though he almost wished his magic hadn’t returned.</p><p>   Then the passageway opened out abruptly and for a moment Bickslow couldn’t see, the sunlight a shock after so long inside and he flung up a hand to protect himself, flinching as the sound of the crowd washed over him, undiluted by distance and overwhelming. There was a bell tolling, barely audible over the crowd until the people slowly quietened and Bickslow dropped his arm, dread bubbling up, blinking rapidly as he glanced around. They were stood bunched at the edge of a wide, sweeping arena of sand, the ground churned and blood-stained, and his stomach twisted at the sight. <em>Everything has to be paid for in blood,</em> Freed’s words returned to mock him and swallowing back his nausea he lifted his head, determined to take in anything.</p><p>  The anger was rising again, battling with the urge to throw up as he took in the barrier that covered the arena, separating them from the seemingly endless ocean of faces watching them. Watching the spectacle, they were being forced to provide.</p><p>
  <em>Monsters.</em>
</p><p>    The thought simmered, only now it was accompanied by an answering surge in his magic. It hadn’t liked being locked away any more than he had liked being separated from it, and it wanted out, but as his eyes rove over the crowd he could tell that the barrier wasn’t only to keep them trapped because the souls beyond were muted and out of reach. The gong rang again, and he turned his attention to a small platform where a brightly robed figure had just raised a flag, the crimson material flickering in the breeze. It meant nothing to Bickslow, but the woman beside him clearly recognised it as a noise that was half-sob, half-wail rose in the back of her throat.</p><p>“What does it mean?” He demanded, and she turned haunted eyes towards him.</p><p>“To the death…” She whispered, just as an eerie, echoing howl rang out and dark shapes emerged from the far side of the arena and charged towards them, and Bickslow cursed. His magic worked best against humans, and he knew that he wasn’t at his best and he took a half step back as the vague, shadowy shapes grew more focused, and creatures that lay somewhere between a wolf and something akin to the great cats that had hunted the mountains near his childhood home, but larger than either rushed forward. All snarling features, scarred maws and bloody teeth, murder in the glistening, inhuman eyes that were focused on their small group, and Bickslow wasn’t the only one who had fallen back. The woman who had answered him had moved back with him, while the man had crumpled to his knees as though someone had taken all the strings holding him up and cut them in one go.</p><p>
  <em>It’s all about choices.</em>
</p><p>    Makarov’s words echoed in his mind, louder even than the howling creatures and the cheers of the crowd that were building as they braced themselves for a spectacle.  Was this what he meant? Had that been his way of preparing Bickslow? He wasn’t sure, but he knew that he was on a precipice, one that he wasn’t ready for, and one that there was only one real path before him if he wanted to stand a chance of making his dreams of escaping real, and his magic surged, vision turning green as he focused on the bowed man, pushing through his fear. Reaching for the quivering soul inside and wrapping his magic around it and seizing control just as the creatures were upon them.</p><p>
  <em>I’m sorry, but I’m choosing to live.</em>
</p><p>****</p><p>   Only the fact that Freed didn’t want to draw unwelcome attention down on Bickslow’s head prevented him from being right at the gate when they finally heard the sound of the fighters returning with their escort of guards. Logically he knew that it hadn’t lasted any longer than his own times in the arena, and yet with the conversation he’d had with Makarov ringing in his ears it had felt that it had lasted for a lifetime, and he found himself having to fold his hands together in his lap to hold himself still.</p><p>    Finally lantern light washed over them, allowing him to see the group. There were less than there had been that morning, and for a moment his heart dropped and there was a distant hammering in his ears that he knew must be his heart, but sounded much larger, and more dangerous. Then there was movement. A figure taller than the others around him, taller even than the guards, although strangely diminished and that hammering became a painful lurching understanding, as he caught a glimpse of Bickslow as the other man was pushed forward as the gates were unlocked.</p><p>
  <em>Alive, he’s alive.</em>
</p><p>    It wasn’t until he thought it, that Freed realised just how worried he’d been. It wouldn’t be the first time that a newcomer fell in their first fight, and if Bickslow had joined that number, it would have been as much his fault as those who forced them to fight. Because Freed had distanced himself when he could have been talking to the other man and making sure that he knew what was coming, and how to survive. <em>It’s all about choices,</em> and he had made the wrong one. Regardless of what else he decided, and he was still no closer to knowing what he was going to do after everything Makarov had said, he knew that he needed to make amends for that at least. If Bickslow would let him.</p><p>     Those who had returned were peeling off as the gate was closed behind them, sealing them in once more as the mages went to greet those who had been waiting on their return and to offer comfort to those who were faced with the lack of familiar faces. Freed only had eyes for Bickslow who was still stood just inside the gates, head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor although Freed would have bet anything at that moment that the other man wasn’t seeing what was in front of him. When another minute passed and another without any sign of Bickslow moving and seeing Makarov watching him from where the older man was comforting a young woman, Freed knew that he was going to need to be the one to make the first move here.</p><p>    Grasping what courage, he had, and feeling the ghost in his memories smiling in approval he got to his feet and moved towards Bickslow, aware of the eyes following him, and relieved that the guards had retreated. If Bickslow was aware of his approach he did an excellent job of hiding it, and when Freed reached the other man, he realised that he was trembling.</p><p>“Bickslow?” He said softly. There was no response, not even a flinch and he frowned. Had he damaged things between them so badly with his silence? Or was it whatever Bickslow had witnessed in the arena? Probably both, he admitted, taking a moment to study the other man, from the bowed head and shoulders to the blood and tattered clothing, evidence of a hard fight. Was he injured? Had he killed? Had he broken…? Freed had seen far too many people shatter after their first fight to dismiss that possibility, even as he vehemently wanted to deny the thought. “Bickslow, can you hear me?” He tried again, voice a little louder, but still soft. A direct contrast to the roar of the crowd, and the screams of the fallen and falling that he knew all too well. It was a lifeline, and this time he was rewarded by a small flinch, and the sight of Bickslow shifting uneasily. Not the reaction he wanted, but better than nothing and it gave him the courage to take a half step forward and reach out, ready to snatch his hand back if it was going to be perceived as a threat, but Bickslow didn’t protest as he reached out and gripped his arm, avoiding some of the larger tears in the sleeve for fear of what might lay underneath. “Are you with me?”</p><p>“…you pushed me away…” It wasn’t the reply he’d been looking for, and somehow it was worse for the lack of venom in the words. Bickslow just sounded exhausted and shattered. Freed flinched. He would have preferred an accusation, rather than that quiet, devastated statement.</p><p>“I know,” Freed refused to hide from what he’d done. “I’m sorry…believe me if I could do it over, I would, and…”</p><p>“You can’t,” Bickslow finally lifted his head, and his eyes were raw and red as though he had been weeping, although there were no tears now. Instead, he looked weary in soul and body, and Freed wanted to curse, knowing just how that felt and that while there was nothing, he could have done to stop Bickslow facing the arena, he could have helped.</p><p>“I know…”</p><p>      Bickslow gave a short, jerky nod and then pulled away, and Freed let him go, poised to spring forward if needed because the other man looked as though he might topple at any moment. “We’ve both made choices that can’t be undone…” The sheer self-loathing in those words took Freed’s breath away, and for a moment it was like looking in the mirror as Bickslow met his gaze.</p><p>“Bickslow…”</p><p>“Don’t…” They really were far too alike Freed realised at that moment as Bickslow cut him off. “J-just leave me alone.” He was having his own words, and his inaction thrown back at him and he didn’t know what to do as Bickslow staggered away from him, heading for his bed, and not knowing what else to do Freed looked to Makarov for help. Bickslow had known how to push through his attempts to keep him out, but Freed had spent far too long pulling away from people to know what to do now that their roles were reversed, even with Makarov’s words to guide him.</p><p>      The older man excused himself from those he had been talking too, making sure that the weeping woman was being taken care of before making a beeline for Bickslow. Freed ached to follow after him, but right now he wasn’t sure that he would be welcome, and instead, he found himself retracing his path to where he had been sat waiting for Bickslow to return, only now his gaze was not on the door, but on the hunched figure that had settled on the edge of the bed.</p><p>**</p><p>    Makarov had hoped that Freed would be able to resolve the situation with Bickslow himself, although he knew that he’d given him a lot to think about earlier which had probably left him on just as shaky ground as Bickslow who was fresh from his first fight. It was a perfect storm in hindsight. He frowned as he noticed Freed hanging back, before focusing on Bickslow and realising that distance might be a good thing because there was a tension in the slumped figure that spoke of a storm waiting to be unleashed. It was also something he was unfortunately far too familiar with after so long in this place.</p><p>“Bickslow,” he murmured, announcing his approach and only closing the distance between them when Bickslow’s gaze flickered towards him for a moment, enough to reassure him that the younger man was at least with it enough to recognise they weren’t his enemies. It wouldn’t be the first time that battle-readiness from the arena had lingered past the fight, and there had been some serious injuries in the past when a mage still on edge from what they’d been through had lashed out those trying to help with the aftermath. Makarov himself still had a scar across his left shoulder from when Laxus had reacted in a similar way after a particularly bad fight, and Freed had come close to taking out his grandson on more than one occasion.</p><p>    Even though Bickslow had recognised him, Makarov kept his approach slow and steady until he reached the other man, using the time to search for injuries. It was hard to tell with the tattered clothing and blood splatters that could have belonged to anyone, but he didn’t think Bickslow was hiding anything too serious, although he would be checking to make sure, as adrenaline could hide the worst of wounds and Bickslow might not have registered all his wounds. “Are you hurt?” He asked once he was within reach, not sure that Bickslow would know the answer, but trying to get his attention and keep him focused on the here and now, rather than whatever he had experienced.</p><p>“I…” Bickslow blinked and seemed to look down at himself for the first time, breath hitching as he took in the blood on his clothes, lifting trembling fingers to tug at the soiled clothing. “I don’t….” He trailed off and Makarov cautiously took a step forward, only to freeze when Bickslow tensed at the movement.</p><p>“Can I check for myself?” He asked, voice deliberately soft. Bickslow looked up at him, gaze unfocused and distant and it seemed to take him a moment to make sense of what he was being asked, before giving a short, jerky nod and looking away. With that permission Makarov closed the distance between them, and reached out, although he kept each movement slow and deliberate, letting Bickslow see what he was doing as he started to pat him down in search of any injuries.</p><p>    There were cuts and bruises, some deeper than the others, but nothing that they wouldn’t be able to care for themselves without resorting to Porlyusica. A good thing, as the guards would be less forgiving if they needed to make that request again so soon. The most serious injury was on Bickslow’s left arm, and Makarov winced as he peeled blood material away from a large, crescent moon wound, easily able to make out the teeth marks around the edge. The bite was deep but not life-threatening, and it had to hurt like hell, but while Bickslow had flinched at the removal of the material, he barely seemed to react as Makarov examined it, making sure there was nothing left in the wound. That would change once the numbness of shock and exhaustion wore off, and Makarov was eager to deal with it before then, and he lifted his head to look across the room, unsurprised to find Freed watching them with worried eyes. “I need bandages and clean water, and thread and needle,” he called, feeling Bickslow tense and try to pull free at the increased volume. “Easy,” he murmured. “We need to take care of these injuries, and then you can rest.”</p><p>“…injuries?” Bickslow’s voice was little more than a breath of sound, and he sounded so lost and confused that Makarov ached.</p><p>“Do you remember what happened?” He asked, feeling as though they had fallen through time back to their first meeting, only this time his question was met with an anguished expression rather than confusion. That was an answer in and of itself, but he needed to hear the words if only to gauge where Bickslow was at the moment. “Bickslow?”</p><p>“Arena…” Bickslow whispered. “First fight…”</p><p>“That’s right,” Makarov encouraged, heart, aching for the younger man and for everyone that had been forced onto those bloody sands. Before he could continue, Freed was there with the requested supplies and Bickslow tensed and fell silent, recoiling away from them, and Makarov saw the pain in Freed’s face, starker than it had been even during their conversation, and he was torn. Delighted that Freed was facing up to this, and aware that the Rune Mage had brought it on himself and that right now there was little he could do to help fix this, as Bickslow was the priority. “Set them down there and…”</p><p>“…make him go away,” Bickslow interjected, and Makarov was sure it was only his own sharp intake of breath that he heard. Freed didn’t protest then, setting the materials down before retreating and Makarov sighed but was unable to miss the way Bickslow relaxed just a little as Freed left.</p><p>       Makarov reached for the small bowl of water Freed had brought across and the cloths draped over the edge, using the action to consider his words. Bickslow’s injuries were the priority, but he knew that he couldn’t leave the other wounds to fester, let alone the distance between him and Freed, more convinced than ever that this was the path forward for both of them even as he apologised to the ghost of his grandson. With gentle hands, he pulled the material of Bickslow’s sleeve out of the way so that he could access the bite, wanting to get that out of the way first, murmuring an apology as Bickslow hissed as he started to clean the blood, sand and worse away from the wound.</p><p>    He worked quietly for a few minutes, letting Bickslow adjust and keeping a close eye on him, watching as the distant gaze became a little less distant, and all the while aware of Freed’s gaze boring into them from the other side of the room. It was only when Bickslow’s head tilted towards him, watching him work, that he dared speak up and press the issue. “Is it really Freed that you’re angry with?” He asked softly, not faltering in his ministrations, even when the arm he was holding went tense, and for a moment he braced himself for an explosion. Instead, silence greeted his question and he let it linger for a moment, before trying again and this time he did lift his head to look at Bickslow.  “Bickslow?” It was impossible to miss the conflicted expression, anger and hurt and self-loathing, and something far darker building in his face.</p><p>“No…” Bickslow said finally, and his voice was a low snarl and Makarov forced himself not to pull away, knowing that would only compact whatever Bickslow was feeling at the moment, although it took him a moment to get his voice to work.</p><p>“No? Then what…?”</p><p>“I made a choice…” Bickslow whispered, but he might as well have shouted the words, and they came out as brittle and dangerous as shattered glass. “You told me it was about choices… that everything is paid in blood…and I chose…I chose…” He was shaking now, forcing Makarov to pause his ministrations for fear of hurting him further, which meant there was no way for him to miss the way that Bickslow’s expression crumpled, horror and grief and guilt, replacing the anger. “I chose…”</p><p>“What did you choose?” Makarov already knew the answer. It was the same answer that anyone who survived in this place gave, the same choice that had been forced on them. It was part of this world. But, that didn’t make it any easier, and everyone who made their choice lost a little piece of themselves to it, over and over, until they shattered. Some shattered sooner, some later, and looking at Bickslow as the younger man’s fingers curled into the covers on the bed, knuckles turning white, a hundred flickering emotions passing across his face, he feared that it might be the former. “Bickslow…”</p><p>“I chose to survive…” Bickslow’s voice was less than a whisper this time, haunted eyes rising to meet Makarov’s gaze, and it was like looking at Laxus, at Freed, at all the poor souls he had considered children once upon a time all over again. “…and I sacrificed someone else to do it.”</p><p> </p>
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